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sineala · 4 years ago

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A Few Thoughts About Hurt/Comfort

I have been asked this month to make a post about hurt/comfort in Avengers comics. And I love h/c -- I actually have a massive number of WIPs right now that are h/c -- so I am very happy to talk about it! Anyway, this is not really all that planned out and this mostly turned into an excursus on Tony Stark's pain. I'm sure you're all surprised.

Like pretty much everyone else, I'm sure, I have found that everything lately has been... pretty tough. And the coping mechanism that really got me through last year and this year was reading and writing a lot of h/c, on the theory that, however lousy a day I'm having, I can absolutely make sure that Tony Stark has a worse one. And then I can make sure he gets hugs. Wish fulfillment? Why, yes. (Once at Hallmark I was trying to find a "get well soon" card, forgot what it was called, and described it to my wife as "a hurt/comfort card.") I think Marvel Comics -- the Avengers side, in particular -- is an interesting canon for h/c for a lot of reasons. Though, honestly, if you asked me to recommend you, a hurt/comfort fan, a new fandom, I would probably just hand you some Starsky & Hutch DVDs. Go watch "The Fix" and get back to me later. If you like that, there's way more where that came from. But there's still lots to love in Marvel! Superhero comics are really a goldmine as far as the hurt side of h/c. Because superheroes, and you probably have noticed this, get hurt a lot. They get hurt repeatedly, in fantastical ways that are probably impossible in real life both physically and emotionally (at least, I don't think anyone's invented mind control yet), and even the heroes without superhuman healing powers tend to get physically hurt a whole lot worse than actual people can take. Currently in Iron Man comics, Tony has a broken back and is dealing with this by locking himself into the armor as a backboard and injecting himself with massive doses of painkillers. He's busy! He's got stuff to do! He doesn't have time to lie around and heal! So, basically, if you name a kind of pain that you would like to see happen to a character, it's probably happened to superheroes. Multiple times. The downside, though, is that comics do not really deliver that well when it comes to the comfort part of h/c. They could. It's not inherent to the medium that they don't. But because of the serial nature of comics and also the fact the primary audience is dudes who want to read about people in spandex punching each other, a lot of the time they don't really feel the need to provide closure and write about people dealing with any of the hurt. (Raise your hand if you're still annoyed with the end of Hickman's Avengers run.) But at the same time, I think that's a quality that makes Avengers ripe for h/c fanfic. Because, generally speaking, fandom likes to provide the things that canon doesn't, and fandom is more than happy to provide the comfort. If you enjoy canonical h/c in comics, I think you really can't go wrong with Iron Man. One of the big innovations of modern Marvel Comics was the concept that heroes would also suffer from relatable human problems, and in practice what this means is that a lot of heroes start with a fully-loaded angst-ridden backstory and origin story, ripe for h/c. So Tony starts out by incurring a heart injury that he fully expects is going to kill him, which he responds to by vowing he won't get close to anyone so they won't be sad when he dies, and throughout the early Silver Age is constantly on the brink of death as his heart nearly gives out on him practically every issue. And then even after his heart gets (mostly) better, there are various plots involving his armor being detrimental to his health and him choosing to fight on anyway. It's hard for me to think of another superhero hitting that particular variety of h/c in exactly the same way. Sure, superheroes risk their lives constantly, because this is how superhero comics work, but Tony is the only one I can think of who is this constantly this badly off, physically. Like, think of all the other heroes who have had a continual solo presence as fan favorites across Marvel history -- Captain America, Thor, Spider-Man, Wolverine, maybe even Deadpool. You know what those guys all have? Healing factors! For the most part, they are not running around continually on the verge of death, and while there are certainly memorable arcs involving several of them being severely injured and/or dead, you really have to work at it. It's not their constant state of affairs, whereas Tony is the kind of superhero who shows up to a fight already bleeding out under his armor. Yeah, I know Extremis gave him a healing factor. But he didn't have it very long, and also he did some extremely dangerous things while he did have it; I'm pretty sure I've never seen Wolverine saying that he'll just solve a problem by cutting off his own foot. So, anyway, yeah, there are a bunch of good arcs involving h/c for Tony. If you're looking for physical injury, he has a whole bunch of heart problems over the years, gets several new hearts, then ruins his brain, et cetera. That level of hurt is basically the background pain of Tony's life; every so often, his heart will get damaged or he'll have to live in the armor or the armor will be killing him, et cetera. If you're looking for more unusual trauma, I am, as always, going to rec Manhunt, a relatively obscure arc in late v3 (IM v3 #65-69) in which Tony has an extremely bad week. His tech is stolen and used to bomb a building. Then he gets shot in the chest. Then while he's at the hospital a nurse tries and fails to poison him, and she then tries to beat him to death. Then he checks himself out of the hospital and a helicopter shoots missiles at him. Then he becomes a fugitive from justice. And then, oh, yeah, he has to fight the Mandarin. It is... a lot. (Volume 3 of Iron Man is pretty good as far as h/c possibilities. You've got a lot of physical pain, Carol's drinking arc, the Sentient Armor, both DreamVision arcs, and Manhunt. Manhunt is finally supposed to be out in trade this month, by the way.) There are of course the drinking arcs, which probably count as their own type of hurt. But if you haven't read the second drinking arc (IM #160-200), please do. Marvel likes to up the stakes on events (Fear Itself, Secret Empire) by making Tony drink, and it does work, I think. I feel like I've spoken at length about Tony's drinking elsewhere so I don't really want to rehash it all here. And then there's the emotional pain. Angst and drama is something that happens to a whole bunch of characters, yes, especially in comics, but somehow Tony seems to end up with possibly more than his fair share of it. Fandom likes to make a lot of Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, so much so that you might think, if you didn't know canon, that this was just fandom running with a throwaway mention of Tony's terrible childhood and making it worse. But, no, canon really does go there with a reasonable amount of frequency. Howard's actual first appearance is in a flashback where he's ordering teenage Tony to break up with his girlfriend because she's the daughter of one of Howard's business rivals. And then we get into the verbal abuse, and the physical abuse, and the time Howard made Tony take his first drink, and the part where Howard was a demon in hell who Tony fought while he insulted him. And more! Currently, in canon, Howard is alive again and is in league with Mephisto for the express purpose of ruining Tony's life. Also when Tony was a baby, Howard tried to trade him to Dracula. I think you can make an argument that fandom is actually showing restraint when compared to canon. Tony also has a whole lot of Terrible Exes whose presence and/or former presence in Tony's life can be used for a lot of hurt. If you've read any amount of fanfic, you probably know that the exes who get the most play in fandom are Sunset Bain and Tiberius Stone -- not that Tony and Ty were ever canonically a couple, of course, but fandom is definitely enamored of this idea. Ty and Sunset both have relatively similar interactions with Tony in canon, in that they are both liars and emotional abusers, heavy on the gaslighting, with the purpose of becoming more successful than Tony. They both also attempt to murder Tony, although this is after he figures out they're evil, at least. (Yes, I know, this is not how either of them usually appear in AUs.) Tony also has a bunch of exes who also have just straight-up tried to murder or otherwise hurt him, sometimes while they are dating, and sometimes before Tony dates them: Whitney Frost, Indries Moomji, Kathy Dare, and Maya Hansen come to mind. There are probably more I'm not thinking of! But, yes, if you want to write about a guy in a series of terrible relationships, please consider Iron Man comics. If mind control is one of your favorite flavors of hurt, Tony's pretty good for that too. We all know about The Crossing. I suppose when I say "mind control" I mostly mean "armor control" because there are an awful lot of plots where someone else makes Tony's armor do whatever they want it to do and Tony is along for the ride -- Demon in a Bottle, Sentient Armor, and Execute Program are the first things that come to mind. There is also a fairly obscure What If that is What If Iron Man Lost The Armor Wars in which Justin Hammer apparently really wants Tony in a mind control collar to take off all his clothes and lounge around in his underwear. No, really. I think a lot of pain for Tony often revolves around his issues with control, generally -- his alcoholism comes into play here again. The entire aftermath of Civil War is also notable for its propensity to hurt Tony over and over and over. Is he stoically soldiering on through his grief after Steve dies? Hell, no! He cries, like, six separate times. He 100% blames himself for Steve's death. It's great. Everybody loves The Confession and the funeral in Fallen Son, but one of my personal favorites is Avengers/Invaders, in which Tony is confronted with a time-traveling Steve from WWII and in order not to screw up the timeline, he can't tell Steve he knows him. He is clearly not coping well. He shuts himself in a room with a giant wall of pictures of Steve! Also there's a part where he has to try to convince Steve he can trust him and he ends up having to tie Steve to a chair to talk to him, and Steve looks at him and asks, "Who did you kill to get where you are?" and I feel like that is probably one of the worst moments in Tony's life. No wonder he gave himself amnesia. So now we might want to ask, okay, but why is hurting Tony in fanfiction so much fun? I mean, I can tell you why I think it's fun. I can't speak for anyone else. One reason is that he is very emotional and very affected by everything he does. Sometimes you will see people complaining that the heroes of m/m fanfic cry too much and this is not realistic. This is not a problem if you're writing Tony! He can cry as much as you want and it's perfectly in character. I don't think it would be as fun to hurt him if he didn't express so much of his pain. But he does. He also feels guilty, and for me that's a very satisfying character element. If he were well-adjusted and didn't blame himself for so many things, it wouldn't be nearly as fun as watching him blame himself for everyone whose death he thinks he is responsible for, whether or not he is. And then he just keeps going, and it's, y'know, nice to watch him be resilient, too. So, I guess, I think hurting him is interesting because it's easy to hurt him, his weak points are pretty obvious, and he reacts a lot. Steve doesn't hurt quite as much as Tony does, in canon. It's certainly possible to hurt him -- I mean, they did actually kill him after Civil War, after all -- but I don't think the canonical patterns of hurting him are as numerous. Obviously deseruming Steve is a fairly popular go-to in terms of physical hurt; he's been deserumed at least three times that I know of. I think's easy to see the appeal there of taking a character who is fairly physically resilient and making him... much less so. Certainly Marvel seems to see the appeal. But other than that I don't think he has any other really common way to get physically injured. Unlike Tony, whose origin story is basically "oh no, I've acquired a disability," Steve's origin story is "I drank a serum that cured all my disabilities." Which, I mean, great wish fulfillment but there's not really as much there to poke at. Pretty much all of Steve's pain is emotional, but, unlike Tony, his pain isn't often specifically in response to someone directly, purposefully hurting him. Hickman's Avengers run is a big exception, yes. His pain seems to come up most often as a kind of situational angst. He feels like a man out of time. He feels out of touch with the modern era, with people his own age. He feels guilt because he feels responsible for Bucky's death. He feels like he can't trust the government and therefore he can't be Captain America. He worries that he doesn't know how to have a normal life. And, yes, these are deep and important worries but it's different than, like, Indries Moomji dumping Tony with the intent to make him sad enough to start drinking. Very few of Steve's villains want to personally ruin Steve's entire life the way Tony's villains do; mostly they just want to do things like bring back the Nazis. In terms of Steve's potential for h/c, I think Steve is harder to hurt than Tony is. Physically, he is definitely harder to hurt. You can deserum him, sure, but unless you want everything you write to be a deseruming fic you're probably not going to want to do that more than a couple of times. And if you want to hurt him physically while he has the serum, you have to hurt him hard. Usually past the point where a regular human would ever survive it. He's also harder to break, emotionally, than Tony is -- which means it's very satisfying when you can get him to break, but this is a guy who's only cried twice (that I remember) in canon. So if you want to get him to cry, you really, really have to wreck him, and he doesn't have as many obvious weak spots. He also doesn't generally sit around blaming himself for things that aren't his fault, and the whole "stewing in guilt" genre of plots for him basically came down to "he was sad that he thought Bucky's death was his fault," and that's really the biggest regret he seems to have, and also Bucky's not dead anymore. The Steve/Tony relationship itself, I would think, is also appealing to h/c fans because canon provides a lot of ways for them to hurt each other. Some people only ship pairings who would never, y'know, take turns beating each other half to death in major event comics. (And for a lot of Marvel Comics history, that was also Steve & Tony, so if you want them to be BFFs who have never fought, you can just set your fic earlier.) They have definitely hurt each other both physically and emotionally, so if you're looking for something easy and satisfying as a h/c fan, you can just read or write something where they... make up. What about Marvel characters other than Steve and Tony? Surely some of them are angsty, yes? Well, yes, but also it depends on the particular flavor of angst that you like. If you like the way Tony hurts, you may very well enjoy Doctor Strange comics, because they have a very similar attitude towards life -- they are both former alcoholics whose origin stories involve physical disabilities, who routinely make tactical decisions that negatively affect their continued existence and/or happiness a whole lot. It's very much an "I must suffer alone in the dark and no one will ever know what I am doing to save the world but it's the right thing to do" sort of vibe. Like, you can read comics where Strange is lying in hell with two broken legs, hallucinating that Clea has finally come to save him. Strange's biggest fear, akin to Tony's control issues, is basically that one day he's going to be an asshole again, so he's out there trying as hard as he can to do good. Also, if you like tentacles, he has all of them. I mean that. Carol also occasionally hits similar angst spots, and her drinking arc is great. A lot of people like Natasha, too; I have read zero Black Widow comics but I get the impression many people enjoy her brand of angst. The mutant metaphor is a little different in terms of overall vibe, but some people really like it as a source of angst -- the whole "protecting a world who hates and fears them" thing. It may not work for you, but if you like your hurt to include things like systemic oppression, go pick up some X-Men comics. Start with something like God Loves Man Kills. I feel like I liked this sort of thing a lot more as a teenager but that I kind of aged out of liking the mutants quite so much. It's also worth mentioning that not everything that hits the spot in one universe will be the same in the others, and I'm mentioning this because I feel like I have to say something about MCU Bucky. MCU fandom seems to get a lot of mileage out of Bucky's guilt about being the Winter Soldier, everything he was forced to do, et cetera. I have definitely read my share of those fics, and FATWS sure went right for that angst too. But as far as I can tell, he doesn't hit the same way at all in 616. And I like him a lot in 616; I'm always pleased when he shows up on a team. (He was so good in Strikeforce. Everyone was so good in Strikeforce.) But the thing is, 616 Bucky is, basically, phenomenally well-adjusted, given everything he's gone through, and I'm including the time he wrestled a bear in a gulag. He gets over having been the Winter Soldier, and now he's just, y'know, a guy with a cool arm who likes to bring guns to every fight to horrify his teammates, and he snarks at Clint. If you're looking for that angst, that is really not him these days. He's all better. So pretty much all that is canon. So what do we do in fandom for h/c? Well, as far as I can tell, a decent amount of it is canon-based or very canon-close -- there are a whole lot of stories exploring the angst of Civil War or Hickman's Avengers run. Tony's drinking comes up a fair amount, and if one of Tony's Evil Exes comes back to haunt him, it's pretty much only Tiberius Stone. I don't think I've read a lot of fic with Steve getting deserumed; it doesn't seem as popular in fandom as in canon. When Steve gets hurt, he tends to just get physically whumped pretty hard, and there's a fair amount of that for Tony too, but of course Steve can take more. There's also a thriving, uh, subgenre of pain involving Hydra Steve doing terrible things to Tony, presumably the terrible things he would have wanted to do to Tony in canon if Tony had had a flesh body. There's the usual kinds of h/c setups that appear in basically every fandom as well -- sickfic, whump, dub-con/non-con. You get the idea. But since fandom in general likes to take specific inspiration from canon, there's a lot of fic where the hurt tends to resemble things that happen more in canon. Like, I feel like comics fic probably has more tentacle fic and more mind control than canons that don't come pre-stocked with those. Probably everybody has a whole lot of "tied up by bad guys," though. And then, of course, fandom brings the comfort that canon does not. This is true in pretty much every fandom -- I mean, you aren't going to find a lot of actual canons where Character A saves Character B from mortal peril and then there's gay sex -- but, like I was saying, comics don't provide a lot of closure before it's onto the next thing. Usually with a different creative team, who has no interest in wrapping up anything from the last team. Steve and Tony talked about the incursions exactly once after Secret Wars and nobody mentioned the part where Steve spent several months trying to hunt Tony down and kill him. Tony is never going to remember the events of Civil War. Hydra Steve died ignominiously in a fire and no one has ever talked about him again. Honestly, if you're looking for a way to get some comfort in your fanfic, picking an event, any event, and just having the characters talk about it will be way more than any of them get in canon. I feel like honestly that can often be a pretty satisfying to read. And even though comics canon physically hurts characters pretty often and pretty badly, they also often skip right past the recovery. Maybe you'll get one page of a character in a hospital bed at the end of the story arc. Maybe you won't. Demon in a Bottle has one splash page of Tony going through alcohol withdrawal and then he's all better. I think Manhunt skips to Tony getting out of the hospital at the end. That's just not a story that they want to tell very often. The second drinking arc is notable in that it devotes almost as many issues to Tony's recovery as it does to getting him to rock-bottom. Similarly, Steve is done with his Nomad angst way way faster than you probably think he is (though The Captain does go in for a fair number of issues). So one of the things we often want to do in fandom is focus on all the bits that canon skips over, both in the "why did no one ever mention this story arc ever again" way and the "wow, so how long are they in the hospital after that" way. That's really all I can think of about h/c! I'm off to write some more of it!

#posts i actually wrote

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jeonggukieandcream · 4 years ago

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Hi ! I love your writings so much 🥺

If it's okay may I please have Dracula x reader ? Maybe the reader has a bad anxiety attack and they get to the point where the shut down and hold their breath and that ends up making them lose consciousness ? Thank you - 🤍✨

Hi, my love!💙 You absolutely can! I adore writing for this immortal idiot🥺💖 I’ve experienced anxiety attacks many a time but I’ve never had one so bad that I passed out so I apologise in advance for any inaccuracies!💜 I hope that you enjoy this, and thank you so much for your kind words, angel, they mean a lot to me, as does your support!💗

Also, a massive thank you to @arwyn-the-cyrptic-bisexural for helping me to work out Dracula’s reaction and how he would handle the situation! This piece wouldn’t be what it is without your guidance; thank you.🥺💙

Word count: 1, 410.

Something was wrong.

Something was really... wrong.

You knew not what it was, but there was a tension which had been gently simmering within you for the last few days and you had a sinking feeling, low in your stomach and one which you could not shake, that the roiling waters deep within would come to a boil soon. No longer was it a question of if but now was it a question of when and you could only hope, perhaps in vain, that you would be wholly alone when the lid finally came off the pot. Rarely were you able to fully bask in your solitude. Between your daily responsibilities, chores and the endless list of things you had to do, within which every item you ticked off seemed to be replaced with five more, any socialising you managed to do even around that, and your relationship with Dracula, you had very little real time to yourself. You wondered if that wasn’t half the problem in the first place.

Over the last few days had your body felt heavy, your skin simply too tight. You couldn’t breathe and even the most basic of things were difficult to set about doing or completing. Your hands were unsteady, your grip looser than normal, and it seemed as though you had to concentrate even harder on doing things as you usually would because it seemed that your body was set on betraying you. It was difficult to speak, too, like your tongue was weighed down by your existence, and your jaw ached with how hard you were clenching it to keep yourself from crying out. You could barely speak, but, oh how you wanted to scream.

Yes, something was wrong, and you weren’t the only being in the vicinity who had picked up on the storm which was brewing deep within you.

So deeply intelligent and so intuitive was he that Dracula, too, had picked up on something off about you recently. Or, to be more specific, about your blood. Truth resided in the blood if one knew how to read it, and yours was practically screaming at him as it travelled through your veins, working to supply your body with what it needed to stay alive. You had always been a nervous little thing, anxiety, you called it if his memory served him well, but Dracula had never seen you like this before. Despite having been around for centuries was Dracula unsure of emotions and of the way they manifested within people. He only knew that something was wrong with you, his bride, and the same sinking feeling within you seemed to hold Dracula captive, too.

Neither of you would have to wait very long, in the end, for almost as if knowing that something was coming did your nerves only increase and it was all you could do to keep, for the very least, your body functioning as best as it could while your mind began to scream... though no thoughts were coherent. Your thoughts were a hurricane, words ran and bumped into one another in their haste to cross your mind, and those same thoughts repeated themselves as you lost the ability to think clearly. Your skin was itchy, too tight, your mind was too loud and yet too quiet, and you couldn’t -

You inhaled suddenly, sharply, and the dam broke.

“Ooh, listen to that. Your heart’s a lively one tonight.” There was a question within Dracula’s beautiful and hypnotic eyes but you couldn’t speak. It felt like someone had stitched your mouth shut and there was no way for you to tell a very obviously confused Dracula, whose thick, dark brows were knitted together as his dark gaze seemed almost to will to look within you, what was happening. With the realisation that you couldn’t communicate, you choked on your next breath... and you began to spiral as with every inhalation did you try to ease the ache which started to build up in your lungs. It was when your blood ran cold that Dracula rapidly approached you, concerned was he with the state of your blood as it rushed through your veins and only further quickened the pace of your heart. When you didn’t respond, he said, “I need you to talk to me, Y/N. What is it?” He was very careful to keep his voice low, soothing; it was the way he spoke to you after you had had a nightmare and you needed him to help you get back to sleep. The truth was in your blood but for once in his very long existence was Dracula unable to read it. This wasn’t fear, or happiness or sadness... this was something altogether deeper and he had no name for it. He knew not what was happening and you did but you had no way of communicating your knowledge to the vampire who was desperately trying to piece the puzzle together. Dracula’s dress shoes made no noise on the carpet but you saw him coming, you saw him, and you reached out blindly for him even through the haze of tears. Your cheeks were itchy with the drying of tears and you couldn’t bring yourself back under control. You gasped for breath and even the callings of your name as Dracula bent to your height, his eyes holding your own, and tried so desperately to bring you home to him did nothing to help you. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t breathe.

You were too far gone.

Blackness overtook your vision as did the burning of your lungs become too much to take, and Dracula’s mildly shocked expression was the last thing you saw as you lost consciousness in his arms. He caught you before you dropped and with one arm around you to hold you up did he start to tap at your face; gently, gently, and it seemed as though your name was the only word Dracula himself knew how to speak. His hands were cold, dead was he, and after some minutes marked only by the clock on the wall which ticked your life away, you began to rouse in his arms. Dracula swept you up into his embrace and carried you through your home into the bedroom, where he laid you down upon the bed and ran his mind through the things you may have needed in that moment... water was good, it was cold. Bring something for your stomach to focus on. Food, perhaps? But what did you like? Should he put the moving picture box on? All of these questions and more raced through Dracula’s mind but in the end, you made his decision for him as your fingers curled into his waistcoat.

Your eyes fluttered open and Dracula’s face was the first thing you saw, bent over you was he. You had come full circle and you managed to give him a small smile. “Drac.”

Dracula smiled as relief swept through him and he chuckled softly. “Oh, Y/N, there you are. I thought we lost you.” A hand curved to your cheek and a clawed thumb stroked along your skin in soothing, slow motions. He was reassuring the both of you in this moment, not that he would ever tell you that. You knew him well enough to know that for yourself, anyway.

You shook your head and slowly sat up, maintaining your grip on his arm. “Just an anxiety attack. I’ll be all right.”

Dracula sensed a discussion and he sank down beside you on the bed, his cool hand still on your face. It grounded you, as did his voice, and you knew that the worst was over. “That wasn’t ‘just’ anything, dear. You’re a silly little thing, why didn’t you tell me, hm?”

“When it... when it’s bad, like that, I can’t talk.” You shrugged and leaned into Dracula as you sought him out for comfort now that you had weathered the storm. “It feels like dying.” With his face hidden from your view, for you had not yet learned never to trust a hug for the very reason that it presented an opportunity to hide one’s face, Dracula allowed his eyes to harden when you spoke the word “dying”. He swore to himself there and then that you, his finest and final bride, would never meet such a fate. Death came as a shock to mortals, but immortality would come as a shock to you.

#theichabbieclub #bbc dracula #bbc dracula x reader #bbc dracula imagine #dracula #dracula x reader #dracula imagine #dracula 2020 #dracula 2020 x reader #dracula 2020 imagine #claes bang #tw; anxiety

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megthemewlingquim · 4 years ago

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This Is Your Wilderness

Summary: You learn new things about the world you have entered, both the easy way and the harder way.

Pairing: Adam x Reader

Warnings: foul language (it’s a given for Adam), violence, angst

A/N: This is for @just-the-hiddles 's 3500 Follower Writing Challenge! The prompt was Bliss: A shot of pure, self-indulgent euphoria! A scent that is very, very wicked in its own way: the serotonin-slathered scent of pure milk chocolate. This turned out to be much more angsty than I expected, and you can thank @empower-bi-women for that little nudge. This is also an AU where Ian never died.

“Adam, don’t be so paranoid. No one has come around for ages.”

The tall, dark figure at the window sighs. His fingers had only moved the curtain for a second, and he had peeked out and looked down, but now he shifts, lets the curtain fall again. His eyes glint in the dim lighting, and they seem black. “Yeah, but I’m still worried,” he mumbles.

“I could try and get them to stay away,” you say lightly, a suggestion you know will fail tremendously. “Say it’s all fake, what with you and your reclusiveness.” You fiddle with a chess piece, a white rook, in your right hand, glancing back up at Adam. “It’s no trouble.”

“You’re the only zombie I trust now, you know that.” Adam moves back over to where you sit cross-legged on the floor. “You’re all I have. I’ll be damned if I let you go out there alone.”

He sits back down across from you, eyeing his own black chess pieces. Currently, he is down two pawns. “Besides, if the Others find out about you, they’ll… fuck, they’ll kill you. They’d kill you and leave me alone. Because they’d want me to suffer.”

Your eyes widen and your breath hitches. Adam never speaks about the “Others” — at least, never more than a mention of the name.

“Why?” you ask. “Why would they want that?”

“Because I don’t care about their fucking wars. The zombies cause enough trouble as it is. When the vampires and werewolves started their clans, I was not there to join them. I was... I was actually trying to settle down with someone.”

“That’s why you’re in hiding? Because you love?”

“I love, yes. I love and I care and I don’t just survive. This isn’t the goddamn 14th century anymore. I don’t just drink someone and throw their body in a ditch. I get my blood from hospitals. That is if it isn’t fucking... contaminated.” Adam winces. “That’s how Marlowe died.”

“Wait, who’s Marlowe?” you ask. “Was he a friend of yours? Another vampire like yourself?”

He smiles, an amused hum leaving him. “Yeah, he was a friend. Eve knew him longer than I did but we were friends. He was a visionary, an absolute genius. He wrote most of Shakespeare’s plays, y’know.”

You have to take a second to process this, and another to make the timeline match up. “You don’t mean the Christopher Marlowe?”

“He was one of Shakespeare’s biggest influences... and one of Shakespeare's real writers.” Adam smiles. “He really died a couple of years ago. Blood poisoning from a French hospital.”

“Is that why you only use me for your blood?” you ask softly. He nods. You look down, realizing the severity of it all. “So no drugs, huh?” you ask jokingly.

He laughs, a small amused chuckle. “Yeah, no. Drugs... if you’re still helping me out, are off limits. The occasional coffee is okay.”

“‘S okay with me.” You shrug. “As long as you stay safe.”

“And I can say the same to you,” Adam says, coming back over to sit beside you. He brings you close, resting his chin on your head and cuddling you from behind. “All I’d ever want is for you to be safe. Which is why I can’t have you talking to the Others... or anyone who might know them. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I do.”

After a long pause, you perk up.

“We should go to the store.” You glance at the electric clock, which reads 1:43 AM. “I’m sure some convenience stores are open. Do you need anything?”

“You ask me that every time we go,” Adam mumbles amiably. “I don’t need anything, no, but I’ll go with you if you want.”

And so you go.

All you get at the end of the trip is a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, and some milk chocolate bars (an essential in your opinion).

“I’ll go for my actual shopping tomorrow,” you say, getting the gallon out of the freezer.

The air is cold all through the tiny store, and the surprisingly satisfying scent of beer cooler is all around you. Adam wears his sunglasses and gloves, and looks around the shelves. He has nothing in his hands.

He glances at you. “Okay,” he says hesitantly, standing quite rigidly.

When you step up to the counter, the cashier looks suspiciously at Adam, who stands behind you, looking at a beer bottle: it has a tiny little Dracula on it. He is reading the flavor: blood orange.

It seems like the cashier had not heard the two of you talking, but had only seen you look at each other.

“Is this man here, uh, bothering you, miss?” he whispers.

You do not see it, but Adam’s head lifts, just a little.

“N-no,” you say, trying to make your voice as firm as possible. “No, I’m with him, actually.”

The cashier nods. “Uh huh,” he had said, not sounding convinced at all.

Adam comes up to accompany you at the register. Even through his glasses, you can see that his gaze is piercing. “She’s with me. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we’d like to leave.”

Maybe it’s something about Adam’s gaze or his dark tone: the cashier looks slightly worried, but he does what he was told. In a few seconds, you are out, Adam following closely behind you.

“Don’t want anyone coming close to my girl,” he mutters, his breath steaming in the crisp air. “Even if he means well. We’re out in the open now. And I can’t take any chances.”

Without saying anything in response, you both make it into Adam’s car, your little plastic bag sitting peacefully near your legs. Adam turns the key and the car rumbles to a start, and he is just about to shift into drive when he looks up.

He freezes, nostrils flaring in anger. His grip on the shift tightens, and your eyes go from his gloved hand to the dashboard, to see what he sees.

As if on cue...

There are three middle aged men in front of the car, almost completely shrouded by the darkness. The sides of their faces are lit up from the left by the white light of the store’s inside.

Their eyes seem black, and their faces are deathly pale.

“Stay in the car,” Adam hisses, his voice dark and angry.

“Adam—” you try to protest.

“Stay. In. The fucking. Car.” Adam’s teeth are gritted, and his voice gets even angrier, if that’s possible, but he never takes his eyes off of the three men in front of you.

“Wh-what are they going to do? Wh-wh-who are they?” you ask, stammering.

“Lock the doors,” is all he says.

He takes the key out of the ignition. The car stops its rumbling. He opens his driver door and steps out, placing the key in his back jean pocket. He shuts the door behind him.

“Adam!” you whisper, knowing he can still hear you. “Adam, get back here! We can just drive away.”

You see him mouth something: No.

You lock the doors.

Your ears are unable to pick up what they all say: but I will fill in the details.

One of the men steps forward, his white teeth showing in a sickly sweet smile. “Adam,” he says, welcoming in tone. “It’s been a while. When was it we last saw each other, hmm? 1805?”

“Walter… Henry… Jesse,” Adam says quietly, nodding at each of the men. “It has been a while, yes.”

The first man — Walter — glances toward you, and winks. “We've come to talk to you about enlisting. But... this is much more interesting. What’cha got there, huh? A little mouse?”

The name is not positive, nor is it cute. With Adam, it would be. But, right now…

You’re already petrified. From a wink, and a bittersweet smile.

Your heart pounds.

You know, then, that they can hear it. All of them. They can hear your heart racing, the blood rushing through it. They can probably see you shaking, hear the breath leaving your mouth in trembling whispers.

Adam. Adam, run.

“She’s no one,” Adam says darkly. “She...found out about me. I have to kill her. She can’t know about me. About us.”

“How did she find out?” asks another man. Quite tall, nice looking, with light brown hair and stubble at the jaw and cheeks. A gold chain is around his neck, and he wears a brown jacket and white t-shirt. He is also pale, extremely pale, just like his friends, and his eyes seem black.

“There was a friend of mine who broke the confidentiality agreement. That friend is dead now. I killed him, too. But she also has to go.”

“Did she tell anyone?”

“No, Jesse, she didn’t.”

“Good,” the third man — Henry — says. He looks nice, too. Black hair, olive skin. He looks a little older than Jesse or Walter, though. “We can’t let that happen, now, can we?”

“Hey…” Walter says, getting an idea. His smile is not a good one. “Why don’t we help you out? She’s gonna die anyway, isn’t she?”

Adam, by all means, should say yes. It would give him some more time to banter, to discuss horrible ways of torture and death. It would help to keep your cover. He should shrug, say yes, and let you out of the car. Then, he should rip the other three vampires to shreds.

But he doesn’t.

Adam growls — and though you are not able to hear it, you can see his expression. It is hunger, it is defiance, and it is anger. “You are not to touch her. She’s mine: mine to kill, mine to torture — ”

“Yours to marry, yours to love?” Walter asks, mockingly. “Yours to fuck?”

Adam freezes.

“Nobody we know — you least of all — would ever get that protective of a fuckin’ zombie. What are you not telling us, Adam?”

“Get the fuck away from us,” Adam snarls, suddenly furious. “I don’t want any part in your little wars — and neither does she.”

“So you’re admitting it,” Jesse says, almost excitedly. “You love her, don’t you? That's what this is about?”

“That, and the fact that that he hasn't joined a clan in his entire existence,” Walter murmurs over to Jesse. “We discussed that already.”

“I told you once, I’ve told you a million times: I don’t want to be involved with you,” Adam groans.

“You know it’s frowned upon. Both things,” Jesse says.

“A vampire hasn’t mated with a zombie in centuries. And you remember how that went, don’t you?” Walter takes a singular step forward.

Adam’s eyes narrow. “Don’t,” he growls, his voice practically dropping a whole octave with anger.

“It’s only for the good of our survival, Adam. You mustn’t blame us,” Henry says, a mad glint in his eye.

The next five seconds happen with lightning speed. You only recognize the sound and feel of broken glass when it hits you, and a bloodied hand unlocks the door. You blink, it seems, and you’re suddenly pulled roughly out of the car and onto the cold pavement below. Then, you’re hoisted up into someone’s grasp, and into standing position. They still hold you tightly and roughly, and their grip is harsh. A cold hand is slapped onto your mouth.

You scream through it, though, your voice muffled and frantic.

In an instant, Adam’s alert, animalistic, beastly. He growls again, and spits out, “You will not harm her!”

“Adam, what are they doing?” you pant frantically through the hand covering your mouth, knowing that he can hear it loud and clear.

“We’re gonna fuckin’ skin you alive,” the one holding you whispers, gripping you even tighter when you flail and whimper in fear.

“No, you won’t,” Adam murmurs. “Let her go.”

“How do you think this’ll go, Adam?” Henry asks. “You think you’re gonna come out on top? You think you’re gonna stay away from our destiny? You need to help us, Adam. You need to be a good soldier and join us in the wars.”

“I’ll die first!” spits Adam.

“No. You won’t. But she will... whether you say yes or no. Because you’ve gone against our code anyway. Being with... and mating with... a mortal. Now, Adam, you’re better than this.” Henry’s tone becomes condescending.

Adam’s eyes glint with offense and anger. “If you say one more word, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“Not if we kill her first.”

You hear something, then. The breathy sigh of someone holding you... it sounds like a grin. A hungry grin.

You’ve heard that noise before. It happens whenever Adam drinks blood... yours included.

Your stomach drops to your feet.

A childish, delusional part of you wants to say something. Hey, ya want some chocolate? We got some in the car, it smells really good! Really sweet! Sweeter than blood!

You go mad, flailing and screaming, trying desperately to escape, but the one holding you keeps you in his grasp.

“It’s dinnertime,” Henry says, and his voice is a growl.

The next ten seconds happen in a blur. You hear several whooshing noises, feel light brushes of wind all around you, and see blurs of black, white, and gray all around you. You also hear growling — feral, ferocious, angry growls.

You land on the pavement, scraping your knees. Not enough to draw blood, but they sting all the same. In a frantic rush, you scramble as far away from the fight as possible. And that is what it is — a fight. A fight between four —

Three vampires. One of them has dropped to the ground in a heap. You fight the urge to vomit when you notice his head is at an extremely abnormal angle. It is not Adam, however.

Adam was the one, you realize, that has broken the vampire you don’t know to be Jesse’s neck. Adam is lunging, swiping, roaring at the other vampires, who are doing the same. They dodge each other’s grasping hands and punches. You can see flashes of white in the middle of this: fangs.

“Go!” Adam screams, and the breath leaves your lungs. You’ve never heard Adam shout. His voice has never risen above an indoor voice or a menacing mutter.

“Not without you!” you cry desperately. “Adam, they’ll kill you!”

“RUN!”

This time, you know there’s no argument to be had. You run as fast as you can away from the scene, tears stinging your eyes and your legs burning with the effort.

Eventually, you have to stop your running and settle for walking on the cracked sidewalks. Something howls as the night grows deeper and darker. Fortunately, you know the way home, and you also know that whatever is out there, howling at the moon, will not hurt you. Adam made sure of that one.

You’re a lone figure, shrouded in darkness, walking back to safety with cold arms and stinging knees. Occasionally, you glance behind your shoulder, but you don’t see anything.

After a long while, you start to hear the rumble of a car’s engine driving up behind you. You look behind you and see that this car is driving quite close to the sidewalk. Moving further to your right, you avoid it — that is, until it slows to your walking pace and stays beside you. Keeping your head down, you try to walk a little faster. The car, you notice, looks a bit like Adam’s, but it is not. Your heart pounds, and you almost start to run when a car window is rolled down, and —

“Hey — what’re you doin’ out here?” A soft voice. He sounds like he’d be a surfer in another life.

You recognize it. “I-I-Ian?” you stammer, your eyes widening. You turn to the car and exhale a sob of complete relief. It is Ian, driving slowly beside you and looking at you with the utmost concern.

Ian has known you for a long while, ever since you started dating Adam. He has always been sweet, kind, and considerate, and has always been a good friend to the both of you.

“Y-yeah,” Ian says softly, “what... what’s the matter, sweetheart? You ok?”

You shake your head. “No,” you mutter. “A-Adam got into some trouble. We were attacked in the parking lot of some shitty convenience store. He t-t-told me to run, and I did. R-Reluctantly.”

“Holy shit...that’s fucked up,” Ian says incredulously. He leans “Is Adam still there?”

You feel tears rising to your eyes again and you sniff. “I don’t know where he is... or if he’s ok, and — and — I don’t wanna go home and wait and find out that —” Your voice is dangerously close to cracking.

“Hey,” Ian says, his voice a little firmer now. It still keeps its compassion. “Y’want me to take you home?”

“Would you?” you ask desperately.

“Of course, sweetheart, come on in.” He leans over and, with a little grimace of exertion, unlocks and opens the door. You can't get into the car fast enough. You slam the door beside you and slump against the seat.

“We're gonna get you home, ok? It's not far from here. Want me to turn the heater on?”

You drive in silence for most of the trip. Ian must know you don't want to talk too much.

Ian's head comes into your peripheral vision. You're looking down at your feet.

“Hey... Adam's gonna be fine,” he says softly. “He can take care of himself. Something about him just tells me that. My guess is that he's driving home now, actually. He probably fucking destroyed whoever did this to you.”

You nod. You know it's true.

“He cares about you a lot. He loves you. I've... I've never seen Adam look at someone the way he looks at you. Well, maybe except his wife. But... that was some time ago. And she—”

He stops himself. You can both feel the tension there, and you shuffle nervously in your seat.

“Anyway,” Ian continues hesitantly, “he — he cares about you. He'll come back, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

You get to the house, Ian driving slowly up to the curb. The house, as always, is dark.

“Check the back?” you ask. Ian drives further, and you crane your neck to eye the garden. There's an empty spot where the car normally would be.

Your heart sinks.

“Hey, sweetheart...” Ian says. “It's alright... I'm sure he's just...” But he trails off. “A fight wouldn't take this long,” he mutters under his breath. You can still hear it.

There's a pause in which none of you move. You're hesitant to get out of the car and into the house. Ian watches you, waits for you. The rumble of the car is quiet and hypnotic.

“I don't... I don't wanna go in alone,” you say, and you inwardly scoff at your own childishness.

“I can stay with you if you want,” Ian says. “Adam mostly leaves his doors unlocked, doesn't he?”

“Yeah.”

“Why is that?”

You hesitate. “I don't know.”

But you do know. Regular people are pretty much out of the question — they wouldn't come in, because they think the house is abandoned. If they do come in, Adam could play it off as nothing suspicious and get them to leave as soon as possible. The werewolves wouldn't hurt you, and vampires suffer awfully bad luck if they enter a threshold uninvited. If the Others did come in, well... Adam could take care of them, couldn't he?

“Maybe it's because he's all reclusive. He probably doesn't think anyone will actually come in. Those rock 'n roll kids are exactly that. Kids. They won't do anything.”

You nod. “Er... could you stay with me, Ian? Please?”

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”

Ian parks the car on the edge of the road, and shuts off the engine. The cold seeps in your skin again and reaches your bones.

You both get out of the car and walk up to the door. It opens without any struggle.

The house itself is completely dark, and there's no sign of Adam anywhere. The room upstairs — Adam's studio — is completely silent and dark, and he's not in his bed.

Without any words, you two go into his studio again and turn on some lights. Together, you sit on his couch and wait.

After some time, Ian sits up suddenly.

“Oh, shit! We should've called the cops!” Ian cries.

You shake your head. “No,” you say.

Ian looks at you, baffled.

“Ian, Adam's... not one for the police. And, like we said before, Adam can take care of himself. He's strong like that. I'm sure he's...” you trail off. “I'm sure he's fine.”

“Did they have any weapons on them?”

“I don't think so,” you say, remembering the flashes of pointy white teeth.

“Then, what the hell happened afterward? Why isn't Adam back yet? If they didn't have any weapons, and you know Adam can throw a punch and take care of himself, then why the hell isn't he back yet?”

“I don't know,” you say miserably. A part of you thinks Ian is somehow mad at you, but the rational part of you takes over, and decides that he is not.

Ian pauses.

“Fuck it, I'm calling the cops.”

“No,” says a voice behind you. It is sharp and commanding, but you recognize it in a heartbeat.

You turn to look. Standing in the doorway, all battered, bruised, bloodied, is Adam. His sunglasses are nowhere to be found, and neither are his gloves.

“Oh, my God,” you whimper, rushing toward him. Immediately, you're engulfed in his scent, his warmth, his comforting embrace. It's a rush of relief. “You're — you're okay,” you whisper, sniffing as tears of relief come to your eyes.

“Baby, it's alright,” Adam murmurs, “I'm here. I'm here and I'm okay. It's all OK. We're fine.” He rubs your back with a hand.

“Adam, what the fuck happened, man?” Ian asks. “We were worried sick.”

“I'm sorry,” Adam says. “That took way longer than expected. I was also questioned by the authorities. They're looking for the kids now.”

Something tells you that this is not what happened.

Ian looks at Adam skeptically. But, after a few seconds, he shrugs. “I mean... I'm just glad you're alright, man. And I'm glad she's safe, too.” He gestures toward you with a small smile.

“Thank you, Ian,” Adam says gratefully. “Thank you for keeping my love safe. Thank you for staying with her. Now... I think it's time for you to go... Do you need anything before you take off? You can piss in the garden if you need.”

“You sure you don't need anything? You wanna take a look at those bruises?”

“We'll be fine, thank you,” Adam says.

Ian blinks. “You never fail to amaze me, Adam.” He stands up, and rubs your shoulder. “G'night, sweetheart. You're in very good hands now.”

“Thanks, Ian. See you soon, ok?” you say.

“Alright.” He starts to walk down the stairs. “If you guys need anything at all, just hit me up. Later.”

You and Adam don't speak until you both hear his car driving away from the house.

“What did they do to you?” you ask immediately, suddenly frantic and worried, stepping away to get a good look at Adam.

You blink, it seems, and Adam's bruises, cuts, and overall tired appearance are gone. He looks perfectly normal now.

“They did that,” Adam says. “I killed two of 'em. One of them got away.”

“Did anyone see you?”

“No, thank God for that.”

But there's something... off... about the way Adam looks. He seems sad, worried.

“Adam... what is it?” you ask slowly.

“One of the Others got away. He's bound to have talked to his clan by now. I'm still not gonna join them. And I'm sure as hell not gonna give you away and leave you.”

“So... what's gonna happen?”

Adam takes a deep breath. “How do you feel about Tangier, Morocco?”

#jth3500writingchallenge #adam olla #adam x reader #adam olla x reader #adam headcanons #only lovers left alive

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bellshells · 4 years ago

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Nobody Can Know Part Four

It’s here! The finale of Nobody Can Know! This was actually really emotional for me, 52, 540 words later and this fic has come to an end. I have had the absolute best time writing this and I must send a massive shout out to @hinagiku0 for requesting this in the first place. I do have a bonus chapter in the works set in between parts two and three, but no time frame as to when that will be finished. Thank you to everyone who has come on this journey with me, and thank you to everybody who has liked, reblogged and taken the time to send me your kind words. You’ve made this aspiring writer very happy indeed. Thank you.

Pairing: George Weasley x Fem!Slytherin Reader Warnings: Language, Angst, Blood, Smoking, Alcohol, Smut Summary: Christmas has come faster than anyone could have anticipated, but with everything so up in the air; it’s impossible to celebrate. The promise of a break away may give everyone the clarity they need. Word Count: 17.4k+

“No, you can’t. That’s- no. I won’t let you.”

George looked at you with a look of utter desperation, it made you ache. You bit the inside of your cheek to distract from the pain in your heart, it didn’t work. He shook his head and wiped at his face as a tear rolled down his cheek.

“I’m sorry, George. I just need to think.” You whispered, you longed to reach for him, to comfort him; but your mind was made up. “I need some time away.”

“Why? Love listen, please just talk to me. Tell me what to do.” George begged, he grasped your hand across the table and squeezed tightly. “I’ll do anything.”

You smiled sadly; you knew he would; he would do anything in that moment to keep you there. But was that enough?

“I know George, I just feel…honestly I feel like I’ve been hit by a bus. I just need to get away from everything so I can sort myself out.” “From me?” “From you, from the shop, everything!” You answered tersely, you didn’t mean to be blunt with him, you were uncomfortable seeing George distressed. But he needed to understand that you wouldn’t be swayed. “Do you still love me?” He asked, his face twisted in agony as you pulled your hand away and placed it in your lap. “That’s never in question.” You stood and walked around the table to where George sat, he looked at you expectantly as you bent down. You pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’ll send you an owl when I’m settled, so you know how to reach me if anything happens.” “Where will you go?” “A friends.”

************

Cokeworth was probably the most depressing place you had ever set foot in. The industrial town was still dirty from the smoke that the chimney of the old mill had puffed out. While in recent years it had ceased in its emission, the last century’s worth of grime had remained strong. It was a bleak, often sad reminder of the proletariat forefathers of the current upper working-class families who had purchased the many two-bed terraced houses for good rail links to Birmingham and Wolverhampton. You could never have imagined that Professor Snape lived somewhere like that, but really, you couldn’t imagine Professor Snape living anywhere other than Hogwarts. You had seen his office on many occasions, it was to be expected really; full of dusty books and rolled up pieces of parchment. It always smelled distinctly of cedarwood and myrrh, a scent you had almost absolutely convinced yourself that it was Professor Snape himself who smelled of such. You had promised yourself you wouldn’t dwell much on the last few days, instead you would take this time for yourself. You wanted to be kind to yourself for once, to just be you. You weren’t looking forward to the quiet though, your life had never been quiet.

You walked for what felt like miles, all the streets looked the same, each house identical. It was disorientating, the numbers screwed on to each door seemed to ascend and descend in whichever way they liked. You were about to give up and go back the way you came until a little white sign on the side of a house on the corner of the street caught your eye; it had an arrow pointing in the opposite direction with SPINNERS END written across it. You breathed a sigh of relief and started off in the direction dictated by the sign. 69, 67, 65- it was 65 wasn’t it? You pulled the crumpled bit of paper Professor Snape left you from your pocket and looked from the words there, to the grey wooden door in front of you.

If you are in need, you need only knock

You knocked once on the door, you heard a click of a lock from the inside and it swung open slowly. There it was again, that smell. It was almost overpowering as you took a hesitant step into the house. From what you could see, it was immaculately clean. You dropped your suitcase at the bottom of the stairs and removed your heavy cloak from around your shoulders, hanging it over the bannister. The walls of the hallway were a dark green, but this didn’t surprise you. You would have been incredibly shocked it you had entered Professor Snape’s house and the walls had been painted magenta and mustard. You smirked at the idea and followed the hallway round to a room on the right, it looked like it should be a lounge. The walls were lined with books, every surface was littered with them too. There was a well-worn leather armchair in one corner with a drink’s cabinet close by. A table sat in the middle of the room and on the opposite side, a two-seat sofa. The leather of the sofa looked intact, like not a soul had ever sat on it. Whilst you knew that was near impossible, your heart ached for the lonely man who owned this house. Nobody should lead as solitary a life as this.

You looked for a moment, long the lines and lines of books. Some looked to be incredibly old indeed, some without a dent in the hard spines. There were books in languages you didn’t know and some you recognised as classics in the muggle world. You ran your finger across the spines and sighed, you could imagine clearly that Professor Snape had read each and every one of them. You could see him in his chair, one leg crossed over the other- book in one hand and cigarette in the other. You smiled at the image you had created, you hoped he was happy here. You made your way out of the sitting room and back into the dark hallway, the stairs had a cupboard underneath them, the door painted the same green as the walls. You noticed a glimpse of the kitchen through a door which sat ajar, you pushed it open and stepped through. There were more books, many sat on the small dining table that sat in the corner. It was old, it reminded you pews at Hogwarts in its shape. The kitchen itself was cramped, although it had all the amenities one might expect, the claustrophobic closeness of the cupboards did nothing but remind you of the tiny kitchen in your flat. You walked over to the cupboards and opened them one by one, mugs and glasses, plates and bowls (four of each) and then one full of non-perishables. You laughed slightly at the tins of baked beans and scotch broth, a tin of rice pudding sat further forward on the shelf, as if picked out and then placed back.

You opened up a low cupboard next to the fridge and exhaled in relief at the sight of instant coffee, you pulled it out and unscrewed the lid. Giving the coffee a big sniff, you decided it was good enough to drink and sought to put the kettle on. After you had found the sugar and cutlery, you poured the contents of a tin of tomato soup into a pan and lit the cooker. Satisfied with your level of domesticity achieved, you placed your coffee and soup onto a tray and levitated it behind you into the sitting room. You scoured the books for something to read, and finally settled on a dusty black jacketed book called Dracula. The image of the author; a gentleman named Bram Stoker was still and aged, you could but assume this was a muggle book and you secretly relished in the simplicity of it. You settled into Professor Snape’s well-loved armchair and ate your soup quickly, quietly cursing when you burnt your tongue. You devoured the novel, your coffee forgotten until you squealed at the un-dead return of Lucy Westenra. You heart raced and you laughed, having fully immersed yourself in this novel. It was exhilarating. Your coffee was now cold as you brought it to your lips, and you yawned. It was dark outside now, but, in the deep December that could mean it was about five o’clock. Looking over your shoulders as if someone could catch you at any moment, you reached for the handle of the drink’s cabinet and marvelled at the assortment of alcohol stored within. You reached greedily for a bottle of port and padded into the kitchen for a glass, it was then you noticed a scrap of parchment next to the sink.

(Y/N), it read in Professor Snape’s neat script,

Welcome, if you have decided to stay. I have left some muggle money on my desk in the second bedroom upstairs, along with an almanac of the values of it. There is some food in the cupboards, please feel free to help yourself to it. I am not expecting anybody to arrive, so please do not let anybody inside the house. I would be very much appreciative of that. You may write to me if you wish, I would like to know if you are there. Have a Merry Christmas.

Best,

Severus

You raced up the narrow stairs of Professor Snape’s house, port and glass forgotten. The landing was small and had three doors that lead from there. One you assumed was the bathroom, you hoped it was as clean as the rest of the house. You continued to the next door along and opened it, Professor Snape’s personal study before you. You walked into the body of the room, absolutely in awe. He had enchanted the ceiling to reflect the night sky, the moon high above and stars twinkled through the heavy clouds. You stood for a moment and appreciated the craftmanship of this, it was silent in this room and the serenity of the night sky filled you with a sense of calm you hadn’t felt for the longest while. By the only window in the room sat his desk, it was surprisingly non-cluttered with minimal books. True to his note, there was an envelope marked Money. It was a curious thing, you peeked inside and found coins but also paper money too. What would muggles do if the paper money floated away? From the cursory glance you gave Professor Snape’s deconstruction of the value of each piece it seemed the paper money, or ‘notes’ as he called them were of greater value than the coins. But the coins together equalled the sum of notes. It was all very confusing, so you popped the envelope back on the desk and opened up the small drawer on top, thankful to find some parchment.

The feel of Professor Snape’s quill in your hand was foreign and took some getting used to. You wrote two letters in total, one to Professor Snape to let him know you had arrived and to thank him again for his hospitality. He really had gone over and above what you had dared hope, and you sunk further into his debt. The other letter, was to George. Could it really only be a few hours since you had last seen him? You ignored the glassy state of your eyes as you sealed the letter and opened the window. A small silver whistle hung on a chain attached the inside of the sill, it had an owl in flight intricately engraved on the side. It was really quite beautiful, it glistened in the moonlight of the room and felt heavy in your hand. You brought the cold metal to your lips and blew once, but no sound came from the whistle. You looked desperately into the blackness of the street, the only light was the flickering streetlamp; only one was working and that one looked ready to be condemned. You noticed a speck in the distance, it grew bigger as it flew toward you. Your heart leapt at the sight of the black owl that fluttered its wings as it settled on the windowsill. “This one first.” You instructed the owl as you offered the letter addressed to Professor Snape to it, it presented its leg and you fumbled in the drawers of Professor Snape’s desk for some string. “Fucking fuck fuck, where’s the fucking string?” You cursed, the owl gave an indignant hoot, and you made a face to it. Upon finding the string, you attached both letters to the owl’s legs and watched as it flew into the night.

You trapsed back down the stairs and collected you dirty dishes and washed them in the sink. You yawned, fuck, you didn’t realise how tired you were until you caught your eyes closing of their own accord as you stood aimlessly in the kitchen. You collected your bag and made your way back up the stairs to the bathroom. You hadn’t expected a bachelor to take such good care of his home; the bathroom smelled strongly of bleach and the toilet was so clean you could’ve eaten your dinner off of it. No shower, you thought. Not a bit of wonder really, especially when you considered how old these houses were. You were thankful though, that Professor Snape must have charmed the brick somehow to keep the heat in, you wouldn’t even know where to start switching a radiator on. You decided against having a bath, it was far too late, and you didn’t fancy accidentally drowning to death as you inevitably fell asleep. You changed and popped your dirty clothes into the empty washing basket in the bathroom, making a mental note to write to Professor Snape and ask for instructions on how to use the washing machine. You felt a pang of loneliness as you walked across the empty landing, you and George never went to bed alone and you had missed his usual night-time burst of energy as you would get under the covers. It usually resulted in you making love for a few hours until you both passed out from exhaustion. No- you wouldn’t think about that.

You pondered what to do. There was one bed. You hadn’t spared a second thought to the idea that Professor Snape had turned his second bedroom into a study, you cursed yourself as you stood in your knickers and stared at his wide bed. The bedding was black, of course and looked inviting in your sleepy state. You chewed on the inside of your cheek. It wasn’t appropriate for you to sleep in his bed, certainly not. You imagined how enraged he would be if he found out you had slept in his bed. But, he had let you stay here. Surely, he knew you would need to sleep? Maybe he thought you would have a sleeping bag, or even a blanket and you could sleep on the sofa that looked like it had never been sat on. You shook your head and chuckled, what a nightmare. Resigned, you pulled back the covers of Severus Snape’s bed and climbed in. You decided you would find your way to the town centre tomorrow and buy a pillow and a blanket and sleep on the sofa. But tonight, well one night wouldn’t hurt. You had imagined Professor Snape would sleep in a coffin, or perhaps a bed of nails in your youth. You hadn’t considered a large spongy bed, with brushed cotton sheets and pillows so soft your head could sink through them. The sheets smelled of freshly washed linen and you wondered if he had cleaned his house for you coming, you were grateful if he had and impressed if he hadn’t. Your eyes were heavy and closed almost instantly, you pulled the covers tight to your chest and slipped into a dreamless sleep.

********

You were awoken by the sound of scratching. You opened your eyes and were confused for a moment why there wasn’t a sleeping redhead next to you. It had been three days since you had arrived in Spinner’s End and you felt almost at home now. You had a routine, you would wake up and have a bath, have some breakfast and read. You had managed to find the muggle supermarket and filled the cupboards full to burst. You often found yourself falling asleep in Professor Snape’s armchair. The evening would breach the windows of the living room, and you would drift away. It wasn’t bad, it wasn’t particularly exciting either. You felt the same pang of loneliness you’d felt the night before as you sat slowly and sighed. The black owl tapped its beak impatiently on the bedroom window, you rose unsteadily and pulled a t-shirt out of your open bag. The owl didn’t wait for you to let it in as you opened the window, it swooped into the room and landed on the bed, kicking it’s legs, like you hadn’t already noticed the letters tied to it. “I haven’t got any treats for you, sorry.” You said as you attempted to untie the letters, at least, if the owl stayed still for a second. You finally prised the letters away and the owl flew out the way it had come. The morning air was freezing, more snow had fallen in the night and the whole street was bathed in an eerily white blanket. There were a few children already out in the street, their parents scraping ice from the windows of their cars. People still need to work, you supposed, regardless of how close it was to Christmas. You closed the window and climbed back into bed, it was still warm under the covers and you settled in to read your letters.

(Y/N), the first one read.

Glad to hear you have settled in. Yes, you may help yourself to some of the drinks in the cabinet, but if you touch my Lagavulin with your grubby little hands, I shall know.

You snorted as you read that. You inched deeper into the bed, craving more warmth.

I’ll be in London for New Year, believe me, it’s as much an inconvenience to you as it is to me. So, whilst you are more than welcome to stay in my house, be prepared for my arrival on 31st December. If you wish to stay until then, I will require you to buy food. Please let me know what you decide to do well ahead of time.

Best,

Severus

That was the third time he had signed off by using Severus and not Professor Snape or Professor S. Snape, Head of Slytherin House Hogwarts, Potions Master, Surprisingly Nice Person as you had almost expected him to. So, he was coming back for New Year? Blanket and pillows were definitely on your agenda for the day. You picked up the other letter. You knew it was from George and you felt a sinking feeling in your gut as you fingered the envelope. You weren’t really expecting a reply, you told him you had arrived safe and you’d write him again soon. You weren’t sure what in the letter you sent actually required a response.

My darling, George wrote.

I’m chuffed to hear you’ve settled in wherever you are. I’d like to think you’re being looked after, but I know you don’t need anyone to look after you. I really miss you, gorgeous. I know there’s not much I can say that I didn’t already say yesterday, but I would have felt like an absolute git if I didn’t tell you again. I’m not going to ask you to come home if you’re not ready, but I wanted to let you know that me and Fred are heading to mum’s for Christmas. Couldn’t quite face it in the flat without you. So, if you decide you want to come home for Christmas, you know where we are. I love you, (Y/N). I’ll do anything to show you that.

All my love forever, George xxx

P.S. I noticed you didn’t take any of your tampons with you, just say the word and I’ll send them to you. Wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable, love x

You shot out of bed like a rocket. Your tampons? Oh fuck. You raced across the landing to the loo and as you sat down, you saw the same sight that had been staring you in the face for weeks.

Nothing. Nothing in your knickers.

You were late. More than late, it had been far more than a week ago since you were due on and yet, with all the stress of the last few days you had forgotten all about it. You sank onto the bathroom floor and cried. Big, mournful tears and sobs that wracked your whole chest. This couldn’t be, this wasn’t to be your life. With a sniff of resolution, you stood from the floor and looked at yourself in the mirror. You hadn’t realised how haggard you looked. There were dark circled under your eyes and your face was pale and gaunt. You ran a finger across your cheek and felt the hardness of your cheekbone that jutted out further than it ever had before. Merlin, you were far too young for any of this. In the year that you had spent being George’s girlfriend you had had more strife than you could have possibly imagined. Quite frankly, you thought, you had taken it like a champ. But this just seemed one ordeal too far. You were alone, alone and hiding in Severus fucking Snape’s house from your boyfriend. No family, no friends, nothing. No, no more.

******

You hadn’t been to this part of London before. You were quite shocked when she suggested meeting you here, you hadn’t anticipated she was one for the theatre. As you stared up at Her Majesty’s Theatre, the bright still photographs of the show stared back at you. A woman, with long curly hair in a pink dress seemed frightened as a masked man with dark hair loomed behind her. What utter drivel you thought, who would pay money to see this? You rubbed your hands together, now significantly warmer with your new gloves you had bought on your way into London; and scoured the busy street for her. You were starting to think she wasn’t coming when you saw an emerald green cape swish in your periphery. “There you are! Merlin, I was beginning it think you were taking the piss out of me.” You said as you wrapped her into a warm hug. “Never,” Pansy smirked, she pulled away from you and gazed intently at your face. “You look terrible mate.” “Thank you dear, you are nothing if not horrendously honest.” You looked at Pansy with a sly smirk. It felt so wonderful to see her again, her arm entwined easily with yours as you started back toward Leicester Square. “Why did you want to meet in front of that theatre?” You asked. “Oh, I saw the show last week with my parents and it’s an easy location, tucked out the way a bit yet still in central London.” Pansy seemed to have blossomed in the time since you had last seen her. her hair had grown long and glossy, and she was pretty, very pretty. “You? You saw a musical?” You couldn’t help the laugh that left your lips. Pansy rolled her eyes and pushed you playfully. “Don’t judge unless you’ve seen one yourself. The music is to die for.” She smirked and lead you up a busy street. “Do you want to look at the Christmas Markets?” Pansy asked as she picked up a bauble from a nearby stall and inspected it. You wondered if it was a mistake to meet in such a crowded place so close to Christmas but, as she had reminded you, less chance of bumping into somebody you know. “Actually Pans, I need to talk to you.” You replied, she nodded and lead you across the square to a café, all of the tables were either taken or dirty. You both looked over your shoulders as you pointed your wand at a table in the corner and the dirty mugs and plates stacked and ended up on the next table over. “What do you want? I have muggle money.” You said as you reached into your purse and pulled out one of the paper notes; you remembered they were worth more than the coins. Pansy looked from the paper note in your hand and to your face and burst out laughing. “What?!” You demanded. Onlookers from other tables began to stare in your direction as Pansy doubled over laughing. “Oh, fucking hell, (Y/N). You are so clueless.” She managed through her giggles. “You’re going to pay for two coffees with a fifty-pound note?” “Is that wrong?” You asked bewildered, surely it was right to take the biggest one? “Merlin, just put that back in your purse before someone steals it out of your hand and I’ll get the coffees.” Pansy replied, you could see her shoulders still bobbing up and down with laughter even as she queued for your drinks. You couldn’t help but smile too, it had been so long since you had seen her last, too long.

Pansy ended up taking longer than you anticipated ordering drinks. Your stomach began to rumble, and you felt sick. You ran a hand through your hair and sighed, you needed to speak to Pansy about the situation. You had nobody else to turn to. You stared aimlessly out of the window at the last- minute Christmas shoppers frantically move from shop to shop. You wondered if George would have taken the things you had bought for his family back to the shops, or if he would have wrapped them terribly and dished them out. You cringed at the idea of Molly seeing George’s wrapping and thinking it was yours. Out of the corner of your eye you saw a flash of gold and a suitcase whizz pass the window. Your heart raced as you made eye contact with him, Mundungus Fletcher. Behind him he pulled a trolley you saw old ladies carry their shopping in full of tat. He raised a ringed hand up and waved at you through the glass, a sneer fixed on his stupid face. You reached for your wand, but he was too fast, he weaved through the crowd and was gone. You searched for him wildly with your eyes, you craned your neck to try and see further, but it was no use. He had disappeared as quickly as he appeared. You tried to quell the hatred that bubbled under your skin and took a deep breath. “Who was that?” Pansy asked as she set a tray on the table. She passed you your coffee and a slice of cake and put the tray on the floor. “Nobody.” You muttered. You thanked her and took a sip, you grimaced as you swallowed it. Muggle coffee was terrible, watery and bland. It made you long for home, the kitchen staff at your parent’s house were always at the top of their game. It had spoiled you really, you had made such an effort to learn how to do everything yourself. You wouldn’t be one of them. You refused. “What did you want to talk about?” Pansy said as she shovelled a forkful of cake into her mouth. You bit your lip; you didn’t know how to say it. “Oi, you haven’t dragged me all the way to London just for a coffee so talk.” “I’m late.” “What do you mean?” “My period’s late.”

Pansy’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth; her eyes wide with shock. You tapped on the table nervously and glanced over your shoulder. You would be mortified if you found yourself in another situation like the one of the last few days. “How long?” “Nearly two weeks now that I think about it.” “Shit.” “What do I do, Pansy?” Your eyes brimmed with tears as you watched your friends face flit between emotions. Pansy’s usually stern face softened, she ran a hand over her beautifully quaffed hair and sighed. “Have you been to St. Mungo’s?” She asked, you shook your head. “I didn’t know I had to. I only realised this morning and that’s when I wrote you straight away.” “Right, okay. So, first thing you need to do is go to St. Mungo’s, you’ll see a mediwitch and they’ll make you drink a potion to see if you’re…pregnant or not.” She whispered, you nodded tearfully. “Is that it? I just need to go to St. Mungo’s?” “Well, you need to make an appointment first. Only-” She stopped short, she frowned, and her brow furrowed. “Only?” You prompted. “Only, it’s the day before Christmas Eve (Y/N). They’ll be no appointments until after the New Year, I’m sure.” “Is it the 23rd already?” You asked, “Fuck me, I didn’t realise.” You paused. “So I have to wait?” Pansy nodded and swallowed another mouthful of cake. She pondered for a second before she sat up straight in her chair. “Unless…” “Unless?” You asked, you were growing impatient. “There is the old-fashioned way of finding out. The muggle way, it’s just as effective. My sister had to do it before she was of age and she had it off with one of the Black cousins.” “Which is?”

******

You shifted your weight uneasily from foot to foot. You were in Piccadilly Circus waiting outside of a, you think Pansy called it a chemist? She didn’t trust you to not have a breakdown in the middle of a muggle pharmacy so left you to wait outside. It was bitterly cold and the snow had begun to fall harder than before. You watched as muggle pedestrians tried to weather their way through the flurry. How had it gotten to be the 23rd of December without you noticing? How had you let yourself not notice that your period was late? Very, very late, you cursed. You couldn’t help but be slightly angry at Fred and George, you had worked your fingers to the bone over the last few weeks to make sure the sop was stocked to the brim ready for Christmas. You had been exhausted, and still found time to cook and clean for the boys too. No, stop that, you thought. You were just irritable and nervous. You weren’t angry at the boys; you loved the boys; and were so proud of everything they had achieved in such a small space of time. Its natural to have bumps in the road, you just hoped there wouldn’t be a bump of another kind making an appearance.

You shook your head to try and rid yourself of these thoughts. It was no use to anyone to berate yourself, you placed a hesitant hand on your stomach. You prayed silently to Merlin, to anybody that could possibly hear you. You whispered the words over and over again in your mind, please don’t let me be pregnant please don’t let me be pregnant please don’t let me be- “Got it!” Pansy thrust a plastic bag in your direction, followed by a handful of coins. You cocked your head to the side in confusion. “Your change,” she announced and placed the money in your hand. “Merlin, you know absolutely nothing do you.” You offered her a tight-lipped smile as she linked her arm with yours and you hurried away from the pulsing crowd. “Right, let’s go to your flat and get this over with.” Pansy stated, she pointed to the designated apparation point and looked at you expectantly. The thought of going into an empty flat filled you with a dread that quickly turned to sickness, a bile that rose in your throat. You shook your head and slumped against the wall behind you. “I can’t Pans, I can’t go back there now. Not today, I’m not ready.” You muttered, your hair fell into your face and shielded it from Pansy’s view. You felt Pansy put an arm around her shoulders. She pulled you close to her and enveloped you in a hug. The tears you had been holding in since you left Severus’ (could you even call him that now?) house fell from your heavy eyes as you clutched to your friend for dear life. She rubbed your back and swayed you from side to side. “That’s okay, we don’t have to go there. Let’s just go to where you’re staying.” “I can’t take you there either!” You laughed through your tears, Pansy laughed too and brushed her thumb across your cheek. “Fucking hell, you truly are off grid, aren’t you? Don’t do break-ups by half.” “We haven’t broken up, Pansy. I just needed some time away. I haven’t been on my own since…since-” “Shh. I know, I know. I was just winding you up.” She pushed you back gently and held you at arm’s length. “Now stop crying please, you’re making me uncomfortable.” You laughed again and smiled weakly at her. You exhaled deeply and nodded. You needed to pull up your big girl pants and be an adult. “I’ll owl you as soon as I know.” You said, Pansy’s face fell into a look of concern as you took a step back from her. “Have I not shown you, you can trust me, (Y/N)?” She replied, she looked hurt and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes, of course you have, Pansy. I just- I need to do this alone.” Pansy sniffed in indifference and crossed her arms over her chest. You felt instantly guilty, you loathed to upset your friend, especially when she had gone above and beyond for you; but you needed to do this by yourself. “Fine. But you should let George know, it’s as much his concern as it is yours.” Pansy said stiffly before she turned away from you and disapparated with a small pop!

You were still for a moment. The snow had turned to sleet and it seemed to soak you through to your very bones as you stood. How had everything turned into such a mess in such a small space of time? Of course, Pansy was right, you needed to tell George. He had a right to know what was going on as anybody else and another feeling of guilt flooded over your already aching chest.

******

Desdemona was waiting patiently on a streetlamp as you approached Severus’ house. She let out an almighty hoot as you spotted her in the encroaching darkness, she flew quicky from her porch and nearly into your face. “Bloody stupid bird,” You muttered as you extended an arm. Desdemona landed roughly; her talons pinched your skin under your winter coat as she offered the letter in her beak. Your heart sank as you took it, it could only be from your parents. “I don’t have anything for you. Go home.” You ordered her, if you didn’t know any better you could have sworn she rolled her eyes before she took off into the sky. You watched her fly for as far as you could see her, her tawny features hard to make out after a while. With a groan, you let yourself in to the house.

You settled in Severus’ armchair and kicked your shoes off. The letter from your parents held tightly in your hand, it felt heavy and you were anxious yet reluctant to find out what it said. You sank lower into the comfortable leather and brought your knees to your chest and teased open the envelope. It wasn’t a howler, that was for certain. A smaller envelope dropped out of the initial one, and a folded piece of parchment landed on your lap. Ignoring the small envelope, you picked up the note and noticed immediately it was written in your father’s hand.

Daughter,

I understand you have moved to Diagon Alley with your partner; congratulations, I’m pleased you have found happiness. I must admit, this is to be a strange Christmas without you here with us. I will leave your stocking above the fireplace like always. I wish for you to understand that you are always welcome here, this is your home. I am your father. You will always be my little girl. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you.

Enclosed you will find your Christmas present; your mother gave her blessing for me to send it to you.

Merry Christmas, my darling.

You clutched the letter to your chest as you sobbed. You traced your finger over your father’s words, as if you could touch him through the parchment. You missed him more than words could say, you hadn’t anticipated how much so. In the time that had elapsed since you had last seen him, it was easy to forget the good things, the best things about your father; instead remembering him as the distant man who told you to run instead of protecting you. But he had, from the coldness of your mother, from the sneering remarks of the other noble families as a child and finally from your torment as you sat alone at Christmas.

You padded solemnly into the kitchen and retrieved the bottle of port and the glass tumbler you had set out the night before. You poured yourself a healthy measure and as you brought the glass to your lips, you stopped. You remembered the white plastic bag you had flung on the floor at the bottom of the stairs when you arrived back, your stomach gurgled, and you bit your lip. What were you to do? Well, you knew exactly what you should do. You should write to George immediately, or better yet, go straight to The Burrow and you could do this together but- there was a part of you that felt that if you were to go to him now, you would be conceding. You would be letting yourself down. You hadn’t run straight into George’s arms the minute Mundungus’ plot was uncovered, if you were to go back now after two nights away from him would make you look weak. You demanded space, you demanded time to think and get away; you deserved it! George had to understand that he had hurt you immeasurably and not everything could be solved by a kiss and a cuddle.

Regardless, if it turned out you weren’t pregnant then what would have been the need? You would have gone back to him at the first sign of trouble like always, and you weren’t prepared to it this time. If you were pregnant then yes, you would go to him. You would sit down and have an adult conversation over what to do next; but if you weren’t? You could perhaps enjoy this time to yourself before you returned to him. Before you decided what it was exactly you were to say to him. The layers of guilt that had so far weighed heavy on your chest eased slightly, your affirmations to yourself that this was the right thing to do, seemed to have assuaged you some. It was time, you knew it was. It was now or never, and it was most certainly, now.

You read and re-read the instructions on the side of the box as you sat on the toilet. Your hand trembled as it held the little white stick, you parted your legs and pushed your hand between them; no idea if the stick was in the right position. When you were satisfied that you had done what you needed to, you pulled the stick away and popped the little blue cap on the used end. The box said it would take two minutes to give you a result, so with that, after thoroughly washing your hands, you returned to the living room. You placed the ‘test’ (it was most unlike any test you had ever taken in your life thus far) on the table face down, so you couldn’t see the little window and picked Dracula up from its perch on the nearby shelf. It was then that you noticed the small envelope your father had sent on the arm of the chair. You opened it gently, unsure of what it could be. Onto your lap fell an incredibly delicate silver choker encrusted with brilliant emeralds and littered with small diamonds, given to your mother when your grandmother died. You lifted it to the light and watched how the jewels caught the light. This piece of jewellery had been in your family for generations, You had admired it since you were a little girl, it had sat pride of place around your mother’s neck for special occasions, and you had tried it on- once or twice. Your mother would have been furious if she had found out. Your heart swelled with pride as you traced your fingers lovingly across it, that your mother wanted you to have it. Progress perhaps?

A thunderous banging on the front door caused you to yelp in fear. You reached into the pocket of your jeans and produced your wand, you waved it frantically across the room and with a puff, all the candles were extinguished. You were plunged into darkness. Your heart pounded in your chest as you inched slowly out of the living room; wand raised- you weren’t sure what use it would be in the dark, but you refused to cast a Lumos. Severus had said he wasn’t expecting anyone at the house, and to not let anybody inside. You swallowed your fear and allowed yourself a second to think. The only people who would know what this house was, would either be one of two kinds. Muggles, probably drunk, banging on the wrong door or the darker alternative. The one you hoped to Merlin it wasn’t. The banging recommenced as you entered the hallway, you flinched at the sound but continued in your progress toward the front door. The early evening had well given way to night, and the only thing you could make out through the panes of glass in the door, was the shadowy figure that once again brought its hand up to bang against the wood. You crept silently along the hallway, with each step your pulse quickened as with trembling hand, you slowly reached for the catch. You felt a trickle of sweat run down your neck as you clasped the metal knob and turned it ever so slightly, you aimed to open the catch and fling the door open to the surprise of the intruder. You hoped to catch them off guard. As soon as you heard the click of the door, you flung it open. “Stupefy!” You exclaimed, but he was faster. “Expelliarmus.” Your wand flew from your hand and landed in his, bloodied and shaking. You blinked, unmoving as he reached for you. His other hand grasped onto your shirt as he tried to stand up straight. You recoiled backwards; it was instinctual. You noticed the hand which held fast onto the front of your shirt was also drenched in blood. “Don’t scream.” He breathed, “Don’t scream, just…help…me inside.” You managed to nod and grasp him under his arm, as with the other he left bloody handprints along the wall. He kicked the door closed behind him as you helped him into the lounge, and with a big heave, assisted him to the sofa. “Why…is it so…dark?”

In a second, every candle was lit, and you were able to get a good look at his face. “What happened to you, Severus?” You asked horrified, he had a large gash on his cheek that bled freely. He clutched his side, and you noticed a flash of skin underneath his hands, he was wounded, badly. Bleeding profusely, what the fuck do you do? “Tell me what to do.” “Dittany.” Severus whispered, “Cupboard in…bathroom.” You raced from the lounge up the stairs as fast as your feet could carry you, you wrenched open the bathroom cupboard and frantically searched for Essence of Dittany. You noticed that your hands were also covered in blood, his blood as you twisted and turned every bottle until you clasped your hand around the brown bottle. “Give it to me.” Severus said weakly, he reached for the bottle, but you shook your head. “No, you can’t-” “I didn’t ask for…your opinion witch, give…me the…bottle.” He wheezed through gritted teeth, his face was a mass of blood now, like he had somehow tried to quell the bleeding but had somehow made it worse. You hesitated for a moment before you handed the bottle to him. He reached forward with a surprisingly steady hand and applied three drops to his cheek, his face contorted in pain as a small puff of green smoke rose around him. He winced as he tried to sit up, “Help me,” was all he said. Again, you supported his arm and helped right him. “My coat, I can’t reach-” You reached for his buttons and swiftly tried to undo them, he writhed beneath you, obviously in a copious amount of pain. “Sorry!” You breathed as you reached his midsection, you could see clearly now the wound on his side. It looked as if he had been sliced, the blood was thick and dark as it oozed out of him. Tears stung your eyes as you panicked, you felt so very overwhelmed and with no idea how to help him. You tried to gently manoeuvre his arms through his sleeves, his jaw clenched and with two tugs, you managed it. He pulled his shirt up to his chest and granted you a look at how thin he was. You almost cringed at the sight of every rib in the poor man’s body, his stomach and what you could see of his chest were absolutely littered with scars; some old, some new. “You will have to help…with this one.” Severus said, he looked better, if that was possible. The wound on his cheek shone purple, as if it had been there all along. The only tell-tale sign was the blood beginning to dry there. You rolled him onto his side and took the bottle from his hands, opening it quickly. You placed a gentle hand above his wound, just to the side of where his ribs jutted out. Severus flinched one and then relaxed as you tenderly brushed your fingers against his skin. “Ready?” You asked, he gave a curt nod and you applied four drops of the Dittany across his wound. Severus, to his credit, let out a groan of pain whilst his whole body shook under the strain of new skin closing the wound. The puff of smoke was larger this time, you held your breath as it passed over your face. You held him in place until his breathing slowed, he looked at you askance and motioned to be helped up. “Do you want some water?” You asked as you pulled his shirt back down, covering him up. Severus shook his head. “Whisky.” You rolled your eyes but knew better than to argue with him. You stood and brushed your hands against your jeans, you were sticky with his blood and felt uncomfortable. You hurried over to the drinks cabinet and pulled out a bottle of the amber liquid. Severus held his hand open and you passed him the bottle, he pulled the cork out with his teeth and brought it to his lips.

You watched him as he took sip after sip of the whisky, the colour eventually returned to his cheeks and you felt satisfied to leave him for a moment. You wandered into the kitchen and doused your hands with soap, scrubbing them hard to remove the blood. You fought back tears as the image of Severus writhing in pain engrained itself into your mind. You had never seen so much blood in your life and shuddered as you remembered the smell of the smoke as his skin knit together. You found him asleep on the sofa as you entered, bottle tipped to the side and his face peaceful. Carefully, you slipped his shoes from his feet and propped his legs up onto the sofa. Your wands lay together on the floor, you retrieved yours and Accio’d his duvet and a pillow, laying the latter under his head as you covered him in the blanket.

You retrieved your cloak and settled into the armchair, you pulled it up to your chin and hooked your legs over one of the arms. It wasn’t comfortable, not in the slightest, but you couldn’t justify leaving him in his state. Your hand closed around your wand and pressed it against your chest, ready, just in case. For what- you didn’t know.

******

“Sleep well?”

You awoke with a start. Severus sat across the room from you, he was upright on the sofa. He still looked weak, but his eyes sparkled with humour. “Like the dead.” You offered feebly; you arched your back; oh, fuck it was agony. You winced and Severus chuckled, your neck was stiff as you craned it to look at him. “Nice choice of words.” You grimaced as you swung your legs onto the floor and ran your hands through your hair. You were surprised to feel the ends were dried red. Oh, of course. You shuddered as a fleeting image of the previous night’s bloody work crossed your thoughts. Brushing it off, you stood. “Coffee?” “Please.” He answered, he looked more tired than you had ever seen as he watched you lazily. You returned a few moments later with two mugs of coffee, his black obviously, Severus nodded in thanks. You drank in silence, neither of you looking at the other. After a while, you stood without speaking. You felt disgusting, you were covered almost head to toe in Severus’ blood, although you had scrubbed at your hands- you hadn’t realised how messy it had been.

You allowed yourself to cry in the bath. The water was hot and as you sank beneath the surface, you felt pathetic. You sobbed, more than you had in days. Your throat hurt and your eyes were swollen. Your heart hurt, why? Were you scared? Scared that someone might come after Severus and you would be caught in the crossfire? Or guilty that the man who had shown you so much kindness had been so dreadfully hurt and you hesitated in answering the door.

He was sat in the same position that he had been in when you left him. He didn’t look like he had moved a muscle. “Are you in pain?” You asked quietly, you felt stupid asking him stood in your Christmas pyjamas, but you were quickly running out of clean clothes. “Immensely,” Severus answered wryly, he pointed at the coffee table. “What’s that?” Your gaze followed the direction of his pointed finger and your stomach fell. “Nothing. Don’t worry.” You replied quickly, you snatched the pregnancy test and thrust it into the pocket of your pyjama bottoms. How the fuck had you forgotten about that? Your heart raced; you could know. You could know now, all you had to was look at the little window and it would tell you all you needed to know. “Is that a pregnancy test?” Severus asked, the whisper of a smile tugged at his lips as you blushed. “No.” You lied, why would he know what a pregnancy test looked like anyway? Especially a muggle one. Severus shook his head. “If you say so.” He paused and watched you, your hair dripped big, wet droplets onto your shoulders. “Bring me some parchment and a quill, I need to write a letter.” “Do you not think you should rest?” His face was aghast as you questioned him, you squared your shoulders and met his gaze. “I promise not to exert myself too much moving my wrist.” You gave him a look of annoyance as he made a gesture as if he were writing. You rolled your eyes again, he chuckled once and then grasped his side in pain. Good, that serves him right for being a dick. You smirked to yourself as you retrieved parchment and a quill along with the silver whistle and thrust them into his hands. “Would you like something to eat?” You watched him as, even with the sheer amount of pain he was in, his hand was steady as he wrote fluidly across the page. Severus ignored you as he continued to write. You sat in the armchair and watched him for several minutes, you noticed he brought the feathery tip of his quill to his lips every once in a while, in thought. It was almost hypnotic, watching his hand glide across the parchment, the only sound the scratching of his quill.

The test in your pocket burned with anticipation. You reached for it deftly, careful not to make any sudden movements so as not to disturb Severus. Your fingers grasped it and pulled it out slowly, you shot a glance in his direction, satisfied that his attention was firmly placed upon his writing. You turned it over and…nothing. You panicked and turned it over, upside down and back to front. The little window that displayed the result was empty- no lines. “Did you not read the instructions?” Severus called from the other side of the room. You gave him an uneasy look. “It quite clearly states that results disappear after twelve hours.” He hadn’t even looked up from his parchment, or so it seemed. You raced from the living room to the bathroom and plunged your hands into the wastebin in search for the box. He was right, of course he was right. Why wouldn’t he be right? You felt the blood drain from your cheeks as you slowly made your way back down the stairs. “Idiot.” Severus mumbled, just loud enough for you to hear as you paced the length of the room. What were you to do now? It was Christmas Eve; you couldn’t face going back into the crowds. “I need you to take this to The Leaky Cauldron.” Severus’ deep baritone distracted you from your thoughts as he passed the parchment he had been writing on in your direction. You rose from your chair to take it from him, he had closed it in on itself over and over again until it appeared miniscule in your hand. Some kind of enchantment to dissuade the prying eyes of those unintended to read it, you supposed. “What is it?” You enquired, turning it over in your fingers. Severus motioned you forward and held his arms out to you. “You don’t need to know. Help me up.” Severus muttered and as you placed your arms around his back, your chests flush together; you blushed at the close proximity. He placed his hands onto your shoulders and supported himself to a standing position. “I need to go to the toilet.” He took two steps and swayed, he grasped hold of your arm to steady yourself. “I can apparate us upstairs, Severus.” You stated, he grimaced and placed your arm under his. “No, I’ll be sick. Help me and I might be able to help you with your problem.” He gave you a strained smirk and you nodded. You wondered what he could mean as you slowly supported him up the narrow staircase. You waited awkwardly outside of the door for a moment while he relieved himself, you accio’d his duvet and pillow and returned them to his bedroom, taking care to clear up the clothes you had scattered around the floor. When he emerged from the bathroom, you noticed his face was wet. He had attempted to wash his face rather unsuccessfully and you suppressed a laugh. You helped him into bed and pulled the covers over him, he seemed to relax under your care; letting you wipe a warm flannel across his face to remove the stains of his blood and hummed contentedly. “You can do the rest yourself,” you announced. He opened his eyes and regarded you, “You can piss off if you think I’m going to give you a bath.” He laughed at this, a real smile appeared on his face and you smiled back, it was nice to see. “Agreed. I can manage for now.” He sighed, “How late are your courses?” “My courses?” You looked at him quizzically, Severus grimaced and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Your period, (Y/N). How late?” You blushed again and fiddled with the hem of your shirt, he looked at you expectantly as if he had asked you a question about the ingredients of a potion. “Two weeks.” You answered, Severus nodded slowly and looked to the ceiling as if in thought. “Yes, I think I shall be able to help you. Let me sleep for a while, deliver that letter for me and when you come back, we can eat, and we shall get to the bottom of this.” You sighed; you really didn’t want to go back to The Leaky Cauldron. “Who shall I give it to?” “Give it to Tom, he’ll see it gets where it needs to go.” Severus replied, his eyes closed again. “Am I to say who it’s from?” Severus opened one eye and gave you a dark look, he wet his lips and frowned. “Obviously.”

*******

You hesitated before pushing open the door to The Leaky Cauldron, it was midday, and the pub was filled yet again with people making merry. You fought your way to the bar and waited to catch the attention of the young witch behind it, your neck craned in each direction to catch a glimpse of her. She appeared finally, two large trays of glasses hovering behind her as she began to rearrange the glassware behind the bar. “Excuse me!” You said as you waved your hand, she noticed you and gave you a smile. “Oh, hiya!” She said warmly, “Can I get you a drink?” “No thank you,” You replied, “Is Tom available?” “He certainly is,” A voice behind you said, you whirled round to be met with Tom’s smiling face. “Can I help you, miss?” “Yes actually, I was told to give you this.” You showed him the tiny piece of folded parchment, Tom’s eyes flashed from it to yours and gave you a concerned look. “Is this from…” “Severus Snape, yes. He told me you’d know what to do with it.” You levelled, he took it from your hand and placed it into the pocket of his shirt. “I assume there must be a reason why he sent you and not delivered it himself.” Tom replied with a raised eyebrow, you refused to let your mind wander to the events from the night before. “Yes, but it’s not for me to say so- can I leave it with you?” “Of course, I’ll see to it that everything is in order, tell him.” Tom replied, “Merry Christmas, miss.” “Merry Christmas, Tom.” You watched as he withdrew into the crowd, you turned to the witch behind the bar. “Merry Christmas.” You smiled, she offered you a grin in return and waved her hand. “Merry Christmas.” She replied cheerfully.

You didn’t want to go into Diagon Alley, but your feet carried you over the cobbled stones to the dismay of your heart. Despite the growing tensions in the wizarding world, the wonky street was abuzz with people; not unlike the shoppers you had seen in Piccadilly Circus with Pansy. There was a long queue outside of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and you smiled sadly as you approached the window. The display you had spent so long working on looked magnificent, snow fell from behind the glass and tiny enchanted swans swam in a small lake, surrounded by miniature fur trees and families of deer. “Penny for your thoughts?” You noticed Fred’s reflection in the glass appear next to you. You wrapped your arms around him and squeezed tightly. “I thought you’d still be at The Burrow!” You exclaimed, he laughed and hugged you back. You pulled away and looked into his face, he looked well and cheerful. You had learned the differences between him and George over time, subtle though they were. “Well somebody’s got to be here to run the shop,” Fred said as he gestured to the busy building, “I’m going back tonight.” You nodded in understanding and he placed your hand in the crook of his arm. “Fancy a walk?”

Fred led you passed the bustle of the shops and back towards the apparation point. “You okay, Freddie?” “Yeah yeah,” He answered quietly, it must be difficult for him to see you- to know what had transpired between you and George. “Look, I don’t want to bombard you with questions or anything, (Y/N). But I need to know; is that you and George done? You left things so up in the air with him, and he’s putting on a brave face don’t get me wrong but…he’s my brother, and I can tell he’s hurting.” You bit your bottom lip, you hated to think about George in pain; but you just weren’t ready to talk about things. “No, Fred. We’re not done…but he really hurt me, he said some awful things to me; accused me of terrible things and it’s going to take some time for me to be ready to have a conversation about it. Let alone forgive him.” You paused and wiped away a tear that fell onto your cheek. “I suppose I just never expected he could be like that. It surprised me.” “Bloody surprised us all mate. When George came flying down to the shop floor after you left, ranting and raving- I’d never seen that side of him before. And Merlin, when Snape arrived at mum’s with Mundungus Fletcher, I thought he would wind up with a wand suspension the way he was trying to hex Mundungus.” Fred exhaled with a small laugh, you matched it with a smile. “He’s a good bloke, (Y/N). You mean everything to him. Believe me, I’ve had to share a room with him for the best part of two decades. If you’re not ready to talk about anything, can I at least tell him I saw you today and what you said? I’m sure it’ll make him feel loads better if he knew you hadn’t, you know, broken up with him without him realising.” You considered it for a moment, if Fred told George he had seen you today; it might make him want to find you. He had really respected your space so far and you were grateful for it, but the thought of making Fred keep something like this from his brother was too big of an ask. Plus, you were also keeping a huge secret from him, but you couldn’t tell Fred before you told George- it wasn’t right. “Yeah, of course, Freddie. Tell him, you can also tell him Merry Christmas and that…I love him.” Fred made a gagging noise and you smacked him on the arm. “I need to go.” You pulled Fred in for one last hug and squeezed enough for him and George. He chuckled as you walked to the apparation point and gave him a big wave goodbye.

*******

Severus stayed upstairs all afternoon and well into the evening. You couldn’t blame him though, it looked as though he had been through a massive ordeal and he needed time to recover, you couldn’t begrudge him that. You found a magical cooking book in one of the cupboards and coupled with some of the food you had bought at the supermarket, you managed to cook a reasonably tasty meal. Severus made comments about the quality of the steak, but you expected nothing less. You suspected it was only to save face though, as twice when he thought you weren’t looking, you saw him close his eyes and savour the taste of the food. You had served him in his meal in bed, he had managed to prop himself up on the pillows and you sat at the foot of the bed. It seemed quite personal really, but you found yourself savouring the intimate moments you shared with him. It made you feel like he did actually care for you, as more than an ex pupil, as a friend. He asked you about The Leaky Cauldron, who you spoke to, how you got home. After a moment, you felt brave. “Who did this to you, Severus?” Severus sighed and passed his empty plate over to you. “Nobody.” “I find that extremely hard to believe. I need to know if I’m in danger.” You asked him earnestly, he met your gaze with a softness you seldom saw from the man. “You’re in no more danger now than you have been in the last three days. Please don’t concern yourself with my welfare.” He answered, you suspected he intended to seem sterner than he came across. You wondered if he couldn’t muster the energy to chastise you. “It’s a bit difficult to do that when I have to take you to the loo every time you want a piss.” “You’re vile.” “Pot, kettle, black. I found your blood in my ear this morning. That’s vile.” You laughed and he managed a laugh too. “I’m just glad I was here when you arrived last night.” “Whether you were here or not, I would have gotten inside one way or another.” He levelled nonchalantly. “Would it really be so horrendous to just say ‘thank you’?” You let out an exasperated sigh and flopped backwards on the bed. He eyed you with annoyance, but you could tell it was fleeting. “Yes, actually. For me anyway.” “Well I’m not surprised. You’re just annoyed I’m working off my debt to you.” You winked and rolled from the bed, you picked up your used plates and took them downstairs.

You returned when he called for you. You held two glasses of port in your hands and found him in his study. “When did you get in here?” You asked with a smile, pleased to see him on his feet, if not slightly unsteady. “I am an enigma of a man, (Y/N). I wouldn’t expect your tiny brain to even begin to comprehend me.” Severus answered with a smirk, you passed him the glass and he raised it to his lips and drank deeply. “Delicious.” It was then you noticed the cauldron bubbling contentedly on his desk. You wandered over to it and inspected the shimmering, iridescent silver liquid, it smelled foul; like rotten eggs and you recoiled. “What the fuck is that?” You demanded as you covered your nose. Severus had his back to you; he ran a finger along one of the shelves which held bottles of all shapes and sizes and plucked a large green bottle with a jade lid. You watched as he carefully unscrewed the top and dropped a tiny drop of the liquid onto a sprig of lavender. The flowers wilted instantly, and he dropped the whole thing into the cauldron. A great lilac cloud erupted from the cauldron and dissipated as Severus waved his hand. “This, (Y/N) is a pregnancy test.” Severus replied with a satisfied smile. He beckoned you over to the desk and you sighed as the smell had gotten progressively worse with the addition of the lavender. The liquid had changed from its silver to a dark burgundy, it still held its iridescence as it bubbled. “Is this what they use in St. Mungo’s?” “Merlin no, they use a potion so convoluted there you could have had the baby by the time you receive an answer.” Severus sniffed, “This is Enfantin Inventim, it’s old. Really, very old. They stopped using this in everyday practise about three hundred years ago. It’s notoriously difficult to prepare and can often lead to an incorrect result.” “Should we use it then? If it can give an incorrect result?” You asked anxiously, the last thing you needed was to wait another day. You needed to get on with your life, one way or the other. “Do you think I would prepare something that would achieve anything other than one-hundred-percent accuracy?” Severus snapped. He had a point; he was a potions master for a reason. “Okay, what do I do?” “It isn’t pleasant, (Y/N). Do you trust me?” You considered it for a moment and then nodded, he offered his hand to you, you took it and he pulled you towards him forcefully. Severus winced with the effort and forced your hand open. He quickly drew a pearl-encrusted dagger across the length of your palm, easily opening the flesh. You howled in pain and tried to pull your hand back, Severus clasped it into a fist and squeezed tightly. Blood began to fall from you hand and he brought it over the cauldron, the potion drank your blood hungrily and after you parted with ten drops, the potion began to cloud over.

“Stand back.” He commanded, he gave you a scrap of cloth and you pressed it hard into the palm of your hand. “If the liquid turns white, you’re pregnant. If it turns black, you’re in the clear.” “How long do we have to wait?” You whispered and closed your eyes. “Not long.” In that moment, you wished George were by your side. He would know exactly what to say, and even if he didn’t, he would make you laugh. You imagined his hand around your waist and his lips pressed to your head in a gentle kiss. “Severus. If I am…you know. What do I do?” “I imagine what women have done for a millennia-” “No, what I mean is-” You paused, unsure of how he would react. “Do I have a- do I have a choice?” “Of course you have a choice. I can put you in contact with some discreet mediwitches. They’re friendly and would have you sorted in no time.” “Okay.”

You waited for what seemed an age. You tended to your wounded hand and shot a scowl in Severus’ direction when he likened it to a scratch compared to his. The cauldron continued to bubble, it produced green smoke and spat out occasionally. You couldn’t take it anymore. Severus stirred it dutifully and you told him you’d be back in a moment, trapsing your way to the bathroom. You paced back and forth frantically. You couldn’t stand the waiting idly by, you had fashioned a bandage for your hand out of the cloth and some rolled up toilet paper when you caught your reflection in the mirror. You moved towards it and placed your hands gently on the sink underneath it. “You need to sort your fucking life out, (Y/N).” You said to your reflection, you stared deeply into your own face. Hardly even recognising the person reflected back to you. “(Y/N)!” You heard Severus shout from the study. “It’s done.” You supressed the bile that rose in your throat and took a deep breath. You stepped uneasily back into the room to see Severus’ neutral face waiting for you. He stood with his hands behind his back. “Have you looked?” “Yes.” “What is it?” “For fucks sake, have a look.” He snapped; he shook his head with a scowl as you inched toward the cauldron. Your hands trembled as you peered down into the now still liquid. It was black. The liquid was black. “It’s-” “Black.” He answered with a smile. “I’m-” “Not. Pregnant.”

You cried out a tremendous cry of relief. Big tears rolled down your cheeks as you moved to Severus in two swift movements and threw your arms around his shoulders. He swayed with surprise. “Ow. Careful.” He murmured before he patted you awkwardly on the back. When you pulled away, you beamed triumphantly up at him and he returned your smile. “You can thank me by releasing me.” You complied with a laugh, a genuine laugh. You felt like a weight had been lifted from your chest, you breathed easier than you had done in weeks. “Thank you, Severus. I suggest you stop being nice to me or I’ll forever feel indebted to you.” You laughed, you noticed Severus’ expression alter slightly. “What? What did I say?” “I feel like I haven’t been quite honest with you.” Severus said quietly, “Don’t interrupt me, just let me finish, yes?” You nodded and took a step back. You waited patiently for Severus to speak, he seemed to mull the words over before he was satisfied. “You asked me a while ago whether I’m this involved with all of my old student’s lives, and I think we both know the answer to that. When I returned to Malfoy Manor after I took you to The Burrow, your father took me to one side.” You eyed him suspiciously as he wet his lips before continuing, “He knew what I had done and asked for a favour.” “Of course he did.” “Shut up, I’m not finished. He asked me if would be able to keep an eye on you, he knew I had connections almost everywhere, and he wanted reports of your whereabouts. And I agreed.” You stared unblinking at Severus. “He offered monthly payments if I could tell him where you were going, what you were doing, who you were seeing etcetera.” Severus squared his shoulders and took a sip of his port. “He just wanted to know you were safe.” “So he paid you to spy on me?” “In essence, yes. I never accepted the money though.” Severus levelled, you covered your eyes with your good hand and sighed. “That’s why you let me stay in your house.” Severus nodded grimly and gestured for you to sit. You did so and chewed on your lip. You felt a multitude of emotions, not one of them good. “There is one more thing, (Y/N). That night in The Leaky Cauldron where Mundungus saw you and I for the first time. He was there on my orders.” Your mouth fell agape. No, no absolutely not, that couldn’t be. Severus couldn’t possibly have ordered the hurt that Mundungus inflicted. You stared at him again, stony faced as tears began to trickle down your cheek. “I heard you though, I followed you into the alleyway when you confronted him.” You said feebly, your lip quivered. “I know, I made sure you would hear so not to suspect me. I was annoyed at him though, that was never part of the plan. He went rogue, so to speak.”

A heavy silence descended between the pair of you. Severus, his usual staidness reduced to slumped shoulders and a guilty expression. There was a plethora of things you wanted to say, questions you wanted to ask him, but you couldn’t find the words. He finished his port and hobbled out of the room, your heard him enter the bathroom. You sat still, positively unable to process everything he had told you. Was there anything in your life that you held control over? When he appeared in the doorway, his face was ashen with pain and a thin layer of sweat appeared on his brow. “Do you have any cigarettes?” You asked him slowly. He nodded and pointed downstairs, you pushed passed him and retrieved them from his discarded coat. You carried the remainder of the bottle of port back with you and sat on the floor. Severus moved slowly passed you and collapsed into the chair, the evidence of his exertion etched into his face. You filled his glass with the ruby liquid and then pressed the bottle to your lips and took three deep swigs. He raised an eyebrow as if to complain but thought better of it. “Did you ever care about me, Severus? Because if it isn’t already clear, I care about you.” You pulled a cigarette out of the packet and lit it, you threw the packet into Severus’ lap, a little harder than you intended. He winced and lit his own cigarette. “Of course I care.” You scoffed and took another swig from the bottle. “And are you going to tell him about this? My father?” You pointed to the cauldron full of Enfantin Inventim. Severus shook his head and took a sip. “No, I did this for you.” “Why should I believe you?” “You don’t have to, I suppose. I can’t force you.”

You were silent again after that, you took long drags of your cigarette until the heat became too much as it reached the filter and burned your lip. You finished off the port and dropped the stub into the now empty bottle. Severus didn’t remove his eyes from your face, as if he were waiting for you to explode. You had every right to, you could go and punch walls and kick holes in doors, but what would that achieve? “I’m trying really hard to be angry at you.” You whispered. Severus’ look of surprise almost took you off guard. “And?” “I can’t.” Severus sighed and slipped further into the chair, he finished his cigarette and beckoned for the empty bottle. He dropped the stub in slowly, his face contorted with pain as he stretched. You watched as he did his usual action of wetting his lips, his tell-tale sign that he was about to speak. “I do care about you, (Y/N). There’s a goodness in you that one doesn’t always see when they’re brought up in the circles we frequent. I’m satisfied knowing I played my part in ensuring you got out of it all. You remind me very much of somebody I knew a long time ago, someone I wished I could have done more to help, but it wasn’t within my power. This, on the other hand, was very much within my capabilities. I’m not sorry.” His face settled into a frown and you sighed with exasperation. “Fucks sake.” You muttered, you rose from your spot on the floor and made your way to Severus. You dipped your head and gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “You’re an arsehole.” “Believe me, (Y/N). That is one of the tamer names I have been called in my time.” He smiled ruefully and found your hand and gave it a squeeze. “If I ask you a question, will you promise to answer it honestly?” You asked, you saw the faintest hint of humour flash across his eyes. “I shall try.” “Was it the Dark Lord who hurt you last night?” He looked at you thoughtfully, a smile tugged at his lips. Severus lifted his chin and placed a finger on it and brushed it over his lips. “Yes.” You didn’t quite know what to do with the information, you weren’t quite sure why you asked the question. You simply nodded and gave him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Please don’t worry about me, (Y/N). I know what I’m doing.” “Still.” Severus shrugged, he looked to the clock on the wall and then out of the window into the night. “If you leave now, you could make it to The Burrow by midnight. Bring in Christmas with your loved ones.” He said quietly, you wondered if you saw the slightest twinge of remorse on his face. You cocked your head to the side. “You want me to go?” “I think we both know it’s time for you to, what’s the expression, ‘get your shit together.’” You snorted and threw your head back as you laughed. “You could come with me, if you like; to The Burrow?” Severus shook his head, his hands outstretched in front of him. “No thank you, I prefer my own company.” “What will you do? Will you be okay if I go?” “I have weathered much more serious casualties than this one by myself. I shall be fine. I will travel back to Hogwarts in the morning ready for my Christmas Dinner.” “Are you sure?” “Go,” Severus stated with a small smile, “Get out of my house.”

******

It was five to midnight when you knocked on the door to The Burrow. You didn’t want to just burst in, just in case they were asleep or busy with family time. Your fingers flew to your neck where the intricate choker your father had sent you sat at the base of your throat; it was a special occasion after all. You knocked again and stood back to take a look at the house. There were a few lights still on even at this late hour, you strained to hear any noises on the other side of the wood and were about to knock for a third time when the door flew open. Ginny stood in fluffy red pyjamas, wand raised and a look of shock on her face. You launched yourself at her and she you, you engulfed each other in a vice like hug. “I knew you’d come.” She whispered, “George is going to wet himself.” She led you through the house where only Molly, Ginny and Ron sat by the fireplace in the living room. Molly clasped her hands to her mouth as she struggled to get out of her chair quickly. “Oh! My dear!” She said as she tottered toward you, she pulled you close to her chest and rocked you back and forth. “I am so happy you’re here; we can finally celebrate now.” “Please don’t, you’re going to make me cry.” You said as Molly pulled away and placed a warm hand to your cheek. “Welcome home.” She whispered. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

The sound of feet thundering down the rickety staircase made you jump, Ginny arrived breathlessly at the bottom and George immediately behind her dressed in his pyjamas. Your eyes met across the expanse and you opened your arms to him. He crossed to you in a flash and placed two hands on your face and pressed his lips hungrily to yours. You tossed your arms around his neck, and his arms moved down your body and hugged your waist. You pressed your forehead to his and sighed. “Merry Christmas.” You breathed; a whisper of a smile played at George’s lips. “Merry Christmas.” He replied, he laced his fingers with yours and beamed at you. “Do you want to go for a walk?”

Most of the snow had melted in the fields surrounding The Burrow, and you were grateful for it as George almost dragged you along a beaten path to a wooden bench under a tree, a good quarter of a mile away from the house. He pressed a hand to the seat and shrugged; “It’s not wet, just cold.” “I can handle cold.” You sat close to him on the bench, his arm around your shoulders as you both gazed up into the crisp night sky. There was something about the way the stars looked from here, like you could reach out and touch them. Lonely clouds like tiny whisps of smoke littered the sky occasionally, and you took turns in those moments where the stars weren’t visible in giving the other a kiss. “Merlin, I missed you.” George said into your hair, he stroked the side of your face with a gloved finger and you melted into his touch. “I’m so sorry, (Y/N).” “There’ll be plenty of time to talk about it, George, but I need to tell you something.” You replied, his gaze softened as he placed another tender kiss to your lips. You sighed contentedly at the feeling of warmth that spread through you, you were home. He squared his shoulders and shifted slightly on the bench, so to face you more.

He listened intently whilst you told him of everything since you had last seen him. He nodded and occasionally asked the odd question like; “Was the inside of Snape’s house full of bodies?” and “God, I can’t believe you slept in his bed. Was it a coffin?” The only thing you neglected to tell him was of Severus’ attack, you didn’t know how deep the waters were that surrounded his area of his life and you didn’t feel like it was your place to share that information. When you told him of your pregnancy scare, his eyes widened, and his jaw clenched. “(Y/N),” He said sternly, “You should have told me straight away. That’s not fair.” “I know love, I feel awful about it. That’s one thing I’m truly sorry for, George. I promise not do anything like it again.” He nodded, seemingly content with that and kissed the tip of your nose. You began to tell him of the plot your father had embroiled Severus in, and George’s hands clenched into fists. “That fucking snake.” George muttered, “How are you not furious?” “Believe me, I tried to be,” You answered, “We talked about it and I decided there’s more important things to be worried about. I don’t blame him for what he did and neither should you, okay?” “Fine. But I’m not happy about it.” “I’ll take it.”

When you climbed into bed that night, it was nearly two in the morning. The rest of the house was sound asleep as you and George became reacquainted. His hands found themselves tangled in your hair and you moaned quietly as he pulled softly, his mouth lathering your neck in kisses. “Fuck, I’ve missed the sounds you make.” George breathed into your ear, you tipped your head back and found his mouth with yours. His hands travelled from your hair down to your hips, he pulled you close, and you felt his already hard member as it pushed against his boxers. You brought a hand down and cupped it, he hissed at the contact and bucked his hips forward. “Please let me fuck you, (Y/N). It’s been too long.” “Yes, oh, fuck yes. Do it, George.”

He wasted no time in pushing your knickers over your bum, and you wiggled frantically in an attempt to free yourself from them. He pulled his boxers down and climbed between your legs, he rubbed his cock against your folds and spat into his hand, rubbing it along his shaft for extra lubrication. When he pushed into you, you moaned together. It was like for one split second, the earth stopped. Everything stopped. You could hear your heartbeat in your eyes as you pulled George’s head down to kiss his lips. You ran your tongue along his bottom lip, and he shuddered. He rolled his hips against yours, and you grasped onto his shoulders tightly. George pulled out almost completely, before he pushed into you again; fully sheathed inside you. He did this three more times before you cried out; “Please! I can’t take it anymore!” With a growl, George thrusted hard. His hips snapped backwards and forwards at intense pace, he lifted your legs above his shoulders, allowing him to bury himself deeper within you. You gasped at the sensation of being utterly filled by him, your brow furrowed as you struggled to keep your moans quiet. He continued this pace, his cock now slick with your juices as you bit down hard on the back of your hand. He pushed back slightly and reached a hand in between your legs, parting them slightly as he began to furiously rub your clit. Your eyes rolled back into your head as overwhelming pulses of pleasure coursed through your veins, you moved your hips with his, suddenly desperate for release. George let your legs fall from his shoulders as he grasped your hips, moving you with ease along his throbbing cock. You groaned, as George pressed harder against your mound, drawing from you a string of curses as you trundled towards your orgasm. “Fuck, I’m going to come, George.” The surprise in your voice was palpable, the swiftness in which George was going to make you come was incredible. You panted hard against his shoulder as with a grunt, his nimble fingers rubbed you to completion, his cock hitting the delicious spot inside you. As you reached the peak of your high, George followed. He groaned as your walls tightened around him and he spilled his seed deep into your quim. “Sorry,” George breathed, “I couldn’t hold on any longer.” You smiled and kissed him, it was tender and held every ounce of love you had for him. He deepened the kiss, rolling his tongue around with yours as his hand cupped your breast. “I’m going to fuck you so hard as soon as we get to the flat, you won’t be able to walk for a week.” “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Georgie.” You smirked, he tweaked your nipple between his fingers and brought his mouth close to your ear, his voice deathly low. “I’m going to make you come, over and over again. You’re going to beg me to stop. Then I’ll fuck you, I’ll fuck you the way you ought to be fucked. Rough and hard because naughty girls don’t get fucked nicely.”

Your skin flushed with heat as he nibbled at your earlobe, desire already building between your legs. You cast a look to George, who looked about two seconds away from falling asleep and giggled. “Do you want to be the little spoon?” You asked, he didn’t answer, instead he rolled his body away from you and faced the wall. He pushed his bum out and you gave it a playful slap. “Don’t get any ideas.” He muttered and you grinned as you wrapped your arm around his middle. He laced his fingers with yours and hummed contentedly as the room gave way to the quiet of the house. “I’m so happy you came back.” George whispered; his voice heavy with tiredness. “Me too. I love you.” You replied with a yawn. “Love you too.”

George complained the entire way back to the flat. He had insisted on carrying your bags plus gifts you had received over Christmas, including but limited to; a lovely scarf Molly had painstakingly kitted for you and a hilariously ruffled gilet for George. You couldn’t help but grin consistently as you walked ahead of him up the back stairs to the entrance of the flat, his hat had slipped over his eyes and he lost his footing. Your suitcase lurched backwards, it manged to bump comically every step before it lay still at the bottom of the stairs. “Right!” George announced, he dropped the rest of the bags and grabbed hold of your hips. You yelped in surprise as George hoisted you over his shoulder, fireman style and proceeded up the rest of the stairs. He near enough kicked the front door open and moved swiftly through the flat and into your shared bedroom, he ignored your giggled protestations and flung you down onto the bed. He was on top of you in an instant, his knee pushed your legs apart and his mouth descended onto your throat. He sucked and nibbled at the sensitive skin and began undoing the buttons of your coat. “Off.” He ordered as he opened your coat and tugged at the bottom of your jumper. Dutifully, you sat up and removed the offending items of clothing. His gaze was ravenous as he watched as you tucked your hair behind your ears and waited for further instructions. George’s gaze flashed down to your breasts. “Off.” He repeated. You felt your breath hitch in your throat as George removed his own coat and shirt, his hands moved to his belt and he slipped both his jeans and boxers from his body, his already hard cock sprung against his stomach as you followed suit. You threw your jeans across the room and your knickers next.

“So beautiful,” George commented as he ran a featherlight touch across your cheek. “Such a good girl.” You melted into George’s ghost like touch and shuddered. You kept your eyes on him as he brought a hand down to his cock and rubbed along the length slowly. “Touch yourself, (Y/N) I want to see you make yourself come.” Your eyes widened with shock for a moment before a smile crept across your mouth and you brought your hands to your breasts. Was it a show he was after? Then a show he would get. You placed your fingers on each of your hardened nipples and tugged slightly, your lips parted slightly at the sensation. You heard George as he took a sharp intake of breath as he gripped the head of his cock. You trailed one hand slowly down your body and shuffled down the bed as you lay your shoulders back onto the covers. You reached your throbbing cunt and spread your legs wide for George to see, he moaned as you brought your fingers over your clit and rubbed a sweeping circle of it. “That’s it,” George moaned, “Let me see you- oh! Good girl.” You watched as George began to pump himself faster, your name fell from his lips as you plunged two fingers between your slick folds. You matched George’s pace as you fucked yourself with your fingers, you closed your eyes and fisted the sheets with your free hand. Pleasure built within you as with each pulse of your fingers, you found your sweet spot. “Come quickly, (Y/N). I want to see how fast you can come.”

You took your fingers out of your entrance and brought them now coated in your juices and recommenced the rubbing of your clit. You moaned as you rubbed tantalisingly quick circles on the electrified pearl between your legs. Your toes curled as you felt your orgasm build in the pit of your stomach, you moaned, and George answered it with a moan of his own. Your hips bucked from the bed as you pressed harder with each swipe of your fingers until you came, it was fantastically intense and your voice, thick with desire called out for George. “Come here.” He demanded once you had recovered. His cock was impossibly hard and almost screamed for attention as you crawled slowly over to where he sat. George placed a hand on your head as you took him in your mouth, you placed a tender kiss to the tip and licked the little drops of precum that had gathered there. He sighed as you pushed your lips down the length of hi and relaxed your throat, allowing him a small thrust. His gentle hand became a fist in your hair as he pulled you back, almost pulling you away from his cock; but your hand reached around the base of him and began to pump him. Your tongue swirled around his tip and George’s head rolled back as you wrapped your lips around him and swallowed. You found a rhythm and George’s hand on your head helped you keep time; you could see the muscles in his thighs tense as you hummed around him. “Fuck. That feels good. Such a good girl.”

At George’s praise, you sucked him faster, hollowing your cheeks and your grip around his shaft tightened. George’s hips began to lift off the bed as he thrust into your mouth. There was nothing you loved more in this world than to feel this man come undone under your hand, you moaned against him and he slid further into your throat. That was enough for George, who parted with four thick spurts with a cry of pleasure. You swallowed it up and wiped your mouth, you pulled away and gently massaged your aching jaw. You watched the rise and fall of George’s chest as he recovered from his orgasm, arm slung over his eyes. “I love you.” You whispered, you felt tears sting your eyes and you sniffed. George sat up and looked at you, his face etched with concern. “I love you too, what’s the matter?” He asked, he pulled you close and bundled you into his arms. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, and you nuzzled your face against his neck. “Nothing, nothing. I’m just so happy.” George chuckled and hugged you tighter, you popped a leg over his and hummed as happy tears fell from your eyes. “Me too.”

**********

“No, those need to go to the stockroom, Fred. I’m not having them cluttering up the flat. There’s already zero room in here as it is.” You gestured around you to the boxes of stock that stood tall in your tiny living room. “Right, and I’m telling you there’s nowhere to put them. We need more space.” Fred sighed and placed the box full of love potions on the floor. He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. Angelina appeared from behind a tower of boxes, her face aghast as Fred opened his arms to her. He placed a kiss on her shoulder. “We’re drowning in all this.” She said, you shook her head at you; a silent communication that the boys had finally lost the plot. “What do we need to do?” George called from the doorway, he levitated three coffee’s behind him as he held a beautiful bouquet of flowers in his hand, a bottle of champagne in the other. You grinned as he rushed to you, he presented the flowers to you and you sniffed them gratefully. Roses, lily’s and daisies. Your favourite. “They’re beautiful, George! Thank you!” You placed a loving kiss to his cheek and traced a lily petal delicately with your finger as George put the champagne in the fridge. “Congratulations my love! And happy second anniversary.” He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you in for a hug. “This mine?” Angelina asked, she pointed at one of the three coffees suspended behind George’s shoulder. “Oh yeah sorry, Ange. This one’s yours love.” George smiled and dished the coffees out; Angelina gave George a warm smile of thanks as you sipped happily. “Where’s mine?” Fred demanded; George patted his pockets sarcastically. “You weren’t here, mate.” He shrugged, Fred huffed and turned his attention to you. “Congratulations I suppose, (Y/N). Still think you’re wasting your time being a Healer.” Fred said, Angelina wasted no time smacking his stomach. “You think I’m wasting my time being a Healer…as we’re about to go into war?” You said, despite the seriousness of your words, a smile tugged at your lips as you knew Fred was just sorry to lose you from the shop. You had spent the last year and a half revising your arse off to be fast-tracked through the training programme. It was the only way you could think of to give back an inch of the kindness you had received. You had received your lime green robes this morning, an immensely proud moment indeed. “All I’m saying is, you could have been junior assistant manager. I had the badge made for you and everything.” “Ignore him, (Y/N).” Angelina said as she rolled her eyes, “We’re all really proud of you. Well done, babe.” You handed George the flowers and tossed your arms around Angelina’s neck for a hug. “Thank you, Ange. What did I ever do without you to help reign dear Freddie in?” You laughed and she laughed with you. “Think there’s anyway we can back out, Georgie?” Fred whispered dramatically to George who just grinned ruefully. “Not a chance.” “Too fucking right. You’re stuck with us now.” Angelina replied, an arm slung round your shoulders. “We still need to work out what to do with these boxes.” “There’s no room for them in here.” George offered, he waved his wand over your flowers and they arranged themselves beautifully in a vase. “No,” Angelina agreed, “I think we all know this flat isn’t big enough for four people, couples or not.” You nodded and made your way back to George, he hoisted himself up onto the kitchen counter and you settled between his legs. “What are you thinking?” Fred asked his girlfriend; Angelina shrugged and sipped her coffee. “We were thinking,” You replied, “Turning this upstairs flat into a staff room and overflow stockroom. You’re selling so much, so obviously have to have the stock to sell. There just isn’t room for us in here anymore. Plus, I’m pretty sure the staff would love to be able to come up here and have an actual cup of tea on their breaks.” “We think we should move.” Angelia said, “Separately.” She added softly. George’s hand stiffened around your waist. You wished that Angelina had waited a day or two before dropping the bombshell, but the pair you had spent the last month speaking of little else. You and George needed your own space, and Fred and Angelina needed theirs as much. “You want us to move away from each other?” Fred asked incredulously, you offered him a small smile. “Not exactly.”

**********

The portkey dropped you in the middle of a field. You were on your lunch break and only had half an hour before you needed to be back at St. Mungo’s. George looked stressed as he straightened his tie, you could tell he was nervous. You took his clammy hand in yours and gave it a squeeze. “You okay?” “Yeah,” He replied in a strained voice. “It’s just a lot of money to part with.” You sighed and dragged him in the direction of Fred and Angelina who stood waving at you. You approached them with hello’s and hugs and waited. “What time’s he meant to be coming?” Fred asked as he checked his watch, you followed suit and checked the upturned watch pinned to your robes. Only twenty minutes left. “Any minute now.” Angelina asked. You all looked in opposite directions, scouring the grassy horizons for any sight of the man in question. What you didn’t expect, was for him to surprise you from behind. “You can never expect a group of Gryffindor’s to be on time.” You felt a grin widen across your face as you saw Severus fold his arms across his chest. “Excuse me, I’m one of yours.” You replied, he shook your hand rather formally but gave you a brief wink as he dropped two sets of keys into George’s hand. “Is it all sorted?” George asked the potions master, Severus nodded. “Yes, I watched them as they signed the paperwork this morning. All in your names now, though I don’t see why you had to have me do it. I’m very busy.” “Because I don’t trust anybody else.” You countered, “I needed to be one-hundred-percent sure my parents wouldn’t try any funny business.” “They were quite happy to get rid of these cottages if you ask me. They have no need for them anymore, especially given that they’ve sold the house in Rouen.” Severus said, he looked up at the old stone walls of the two cottages. “The price of war, I suppose.” Fred quipped; Severus cocked an eyebrow but ultimately smirked in agreement. You broke away from George and the others and placed your arm through Severus’, wandering a few steps. “Thank you again, I really appreciate that.” You whispered; your heads close together. Severus placed a hand on top of yours and patted it softly. “Are you still coming for lunch on Sunday? It’s my only day off this week.” “Are you cooking?” “No, George is.” “Yes, I shall arrive at twelve.”

You waved as Severus made off into the distance, when there was no longer any sight of him. Angelina turned to you, and then back out to the cottages. A pair of great stone cottages with an adjoining garden stood before you. That had been built hundreds of years ago by twin farmers who tended the surrounding fields. They were acquired by your parents in the sixties; and now were to make new homes for you and George, Fred and Angelina. It was fitting really that another pair of twins would live in them all those years later, making new memories. “How long have you got before you need to be back at the hospital?” George whispered into your ear. You glanced down at your watch. “Fifteen minutes.” “Plenty of time.” He breathed, George grabbed your hand and dragged you laughing towards the front door of your cottage. The door slammed behind you as he placed a hungry kiss to your lips. His hands where everywhere at once, slipping your robes over your head and grunting in your ear. “This is our house, (Y/N). I want to hear how loud you can be.”

Of course, you complied; you wanted everybody to know that you were his, forever.

#george weasley #george weasley x y/n #george weasley x slytherin!reader #george weasley x reader #severus snape #Pansy Parkinson #Ginny Weasley #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine #harry potter reader insert #nobody can know #godrics-swallow #fred weasley

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nealiios · 3 years ago

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The Supernatural 70s: Part I - Corruption of An Innocent

"We're mutants. There's something wrong with us, something very, very wrong with us. Something seriously wrong with us - we're soldiers writers."

-- with apologies to the screenwriter of "Stripes"

Dear reader, I have the darkest of revelations to make to you, a truth when fully and wholly disclosed shall most assuredly chill you to the bone, a tale that shall make you question all that you hold to be true and good and holy about my personal history. While you may have come in search of that narrative designer best known for his works of interactive high fantasy, you should know that he is also a crafter of a darker art, a scribbler of twisted tales filled with ghosts, and ghouls, and gargoyles. I am, dear innocent, a devotee of horrors! Mwahahahaha!

[cue thunderclap, lightning, pipe organ music]

Given the genre of writing for which most of you know me, I forgive you if you think of me principally as a fantasy writer. I don't object to that classification because I do enjoy mucking about with magic and dark woods and mysterious ancient civilizations. But if you are to truly know who I am as a writer, you must realize that the image I hold of myself is principally as a creator of weird tales.

To understand how and why I came to be drawn to this sub-genre of fantastic fiction, you first must understand that I come from peculiar folks. Maybe I don't have the Ipswich look, or I didn't grow up in a castle, but my pedigree for oddity has been there from the start. My mother was declared dead at birth by her doctor, and often heard voices calling to her in the dead of night that no one else could hear. Her mother would periodically ring us up to discuss events in our lives about which she couldn't possibly have known. My father's people still share ghost stories about a family homestead that burned down mysteriously in the 1960s. Even my older brother has outré memories about events he says cannot possibly be true, and as a kid was kicked off the Tulsa city bookmobile for attempting to check out books about UFOs, bigfoot, and ESP. It's fair to say I was doomed - or destined - for weirdness from the start.

If the above listed circumstances had not been enough, I grew up in an area where neighbors whispered stories about a horrifically deformed Bulldog Man who stalked kids who "parked" on the Old North Road near my house. The state in which I was raised was rife with legends of bigfoots, deer women, and devil men. Even in my childhood household there existed a pantheon of mythological entities invented explicitly to keep me in line. If I was a good boy, The Repairman would leave me little gifts of Hot Wheels cars or candy. If I was being terrible, however, my father would dress in a skeleton costume, rise from the basement and threaten to drag me down into everlasting hellfire (evidently there was a secret portal in our basement.) There were monsters, monsters EVERYWHERE I looked in my childhood world. Given that I was told as a fledgling writer to write what I knew, how could anyone have been surprised that the first stories I wrote were filled with the supernatural?

"The Nightmare" by John Henry Fuseli (1781)

My formative years during the late sixties and early seventies took place at a strange juncture in our American cultural history. At the same time that we were loudly proclaiming the supremacy of scientific thought because we'd landed men on the moon, we were also in the midst of a counter cultural explosion of interest in astrology, witchcraft, ghosts, extra sensory perception, and flying saucers. Occult-related books were flying off the shelves as sales surged by more than 100% between 1966 and 1969. Cultural historians would come to refer to this is as the "occult boom," and its aftershocks would impact popular cultural for decades to come.

My first contact with tales of the supernatural were innocuous, largely sanitized for consumption by children. I vividly remember watching Casper the Friendly Ghost and the Disney version of the Legend of Sleepy Hollow. I read to shreds numerous copies of both Where the Wild Things Are and Gus the Ghost. Likely the most important exposure for me was to the original Scooby Doo, Where Are You? cartoon which attempted to inoculate us from our fears of ghosts and aliens by convincing us that ultimately the monster was always just a bad man in a mask. (It's fascinating to me that modern incarnations of Scooby Doo seem to have completely lost this point and instead make all the monsters real.)

ABOVE: Although the original cartoon Scooby Doo, Where Are You? ran only for one season from 1969 to 1970, it remained in heavy reruns and syndication for decades. It is notable for having been a program that perfectly embodied the conflict between reason and superstition in popular culture, and was originally intended to provide children with critical thinking skills so they would reject the idea of monsters, ghosts, and the like. Ironically, modern takes on Scooby Doo have almost entirely subverted this idea and usually present the culprits of their mysteries as real monsters.

During that same time, television also introduced me to my first onscreen crush in the form of the beautiful and charming Samantha Stevens, a witch who struggles to not to use her powers while married to a frequently intolerant mortal advertising executive in Bewitched. The Munsters and The Addams Family gave me my first taste for "goth" living even before it would become all the rage in the dance clubs of the 1980s. Late night movies on TV would bring all the important horror classics of the past in my living room as Dracula, Frankenstein, the Wolf Man, the Invisible Man, the Phantom of the Opera, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, and Godzilla all became childhood friends. Over time the darkened castles, creaking doors, foggy graveyards, howling wolves, and ever present witches and vampires became so engrained in my psyche that today they remain the "comfort viewing" to which I retreat when I'm sick or in need of other distractions from modern life.

ABOVE: Elizabeth Montgomery starred in Bewitched (1964 - 1972) as Samantha Stephens, a witch who married "mortal" advertising executive Darren Stephens (played for the first five seasons by actor Dick York). Inspired by movies like I Married a Witch (1942) and Bell, Book and Candle (1958), it was a long running series that explored the complex relationship dynamics between those who possess magic and those who don't. Social commentators have referred to it as an allegory both for mixed marriages and also about the challenges faced by minorities, homosexuals, cultural deviants, or generally creative folks in a non heterogeneous community. It was also one of the first American television programs to portray witches not as worshippers of Satan, but simply as a group of people ostracized for their culture and their supernatural skills.

Even before I began elementary school, there was one piece of must-see gothic horror programming that I went out of my way to catch every day. Dark Shadows aired at 3:30 p.m. on our local ABC affiliate in Tulsa, Oklahoma which usually allowed me to catch most of it if I ran home from school (or even more if my mom or brother picked me up.) In theory it was a soap opera, but the show featured a regular parade of supernatural characters and themes. The lead was a 175 year old vampire named Barnabas Collins (played by Johnathan Frid), and the show revolved around his timeless pursuit of his lost love, Josette. It was also a program that regularly dealt with reincarnation, precognition, werewolves, time travel, witchcraft, and other occult themes. Though it regularly provoked criticism from religious groups about its content, it ran from June of 1966 until it's final cancellation in April of 1971. (I would discover it in the early 1970s as it ran in syndication.) Dark Shadows would spin off two feature-length movies based on the original, a series of tie-in novels, an excellent reboot series in 1991 (starring Ben Cross as Barnabas), and a positively embarrassingly awful movie directed by Tim Burton in 1991.

ABOVE: Johnathan Frid starred as Barnabas Collins, one of the leading characters of the original Dark Shadows television series. The influence of the series cannot be understated. In many ways Dark Shadows paved the way for the inclusion of supernatural elements in other soap operas of the 1970s and the 1980s, and was largely responsible for the explosion of romance novels featuring supernatural themes over the same time period.

While Dark Shadows was a favorite early television program for me, another show would prove not only to be a borderline obsession, but also a major influence on my career as a storyteller. Night Gallery (1969-1973) was a weekly anthology television show from Rod Serling, better known as the creator and host of the original Twilight Zone. Like Twilight Zone before it, Night Gallery was a deep and complex commentary on the human condition, but unlike its predecessor the outcomes for the characters almost always skewed towards the horrific and the truly outré. In "The Painted Mirror," an antiques dealer uses a magic painting to trap an enemy in the prehistoric past. Jack Cassidy plots to use astral projection to kill his romantic rival in "The Last Laurel" but accidentally ends up killing himself. In "Eyes" a young Stephen Spielberg directs Joan Crawford in a story about an entitled rich woman who plots to take the sight of a poor man. Week after week it delivered some of the best-written horror television of the early 1970s.

In retrospect I find it surprising that I was allowed to watch Night Gallery at all. I was very young while it was airing, and some of the content was dark and often quite shocking for its time. Nevertheless, I was so attached to the show that I'd throw a literal temper tantrum if I missed a single, solitary episode. If our family needed to go somewhere on an evening that Night Gallery was scheduled, either my parents would either have to wait until after it had aired before we left, or they'd make arrangements in advance with whomever we were visiting to make sure it was okay that I could watch Night Gallery there. I was, in a word, a fanatic.

ABOVE: Every segment of Night Gallery was introduced by series creator Rod Serling standing before a painting created explicitly for the series. Director Guillermo del Toro credits Serling's series as being the most important and influential show on his own work, even more so than the more famous Twilight Zone.

#horror #70s #occult #supernatural #television #writing

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demonfox38 · 4 years ago

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Okay. Made it through the last season of Netflix's "Castlevania" interpretation. Thoughts are below the cut.

I've often thought of this series as the exploitation version of "Castlevania," and hiring Malcom McDowell confirms that.

Although, I find it hilarious that both Malcolm McDowell and Patrick Stewart have ended up voicing the same character. I'm sure there's a "Star Trek Generations" joke to be made in there, but I'm not Mike Stoklasa.

Also, I was cracking up a bit when Varney's plot twist happened. Mostly, because it came off a bit Skeletor-esque in vocal performance.

Also, also—laughing that the final boss went the "Castlevania: Lament of Innocence" route despite barely touching on that game's plot.

Animation had its ups and downs with this season. It seemed like there were some frame issues (not enough inbetweening.) I do appreciate how they incorporated more of Alucard's SOTN animations into his fights, however.

Additionally, some of the fight scenes' pacing seemed to have issues, particularly regarding weapon recovery.

The whole bit with St. Germain was off. Like, he's a weird asshole in "Castlevania: Curse of Darkness", but he's more of a weird asshole there in the same way that casually encountering "Doctor Who"'s Doctor would also be strange. Not a straight up villainous boob. Kinda makes sense thematically to have another character who is willing to do horrible shit for their lost loved one, but the series honestly did not do a good job establishing her. Like, did she even have a voice actor? Or a name? All I'm saying is it was much easier for outsiders to get the Lisa revenge thing Dracula had going.

Also, how dare you joke about not being deaf and then have a villainous monologue, TV show.

Greta's a good girl. Well, outside of being an occasional homewrecker. Point is, she's competent and trying her best to save people in a bad situation, and anyone having issues with her is not to be trusted in the same way that you don't trust people who don't like Rochelle from "Left 4 Dead 2."

Look at me. Do not trust people who do not like Rochelle from "Left 4 Dead 2." Yes, her writing could have been better, but she's still a viable character. Let people Thunder Child their ships on the rocks of your better self. Got me?

Also, y'all really need to embrace more polyamory. Or understand the fact that Alucard's not going to love just one person in his life. Dude lives to be at least 600 in the game's timeline. For a dude who loves humans, constricting him to just one who may live to be 100 at best is cruel.

There are some interesting philosophical dialogues going on here, but I can see where some people may lose their patience for them. Considering one of Castlevania's most popular memes is a philosophy debate, you're just gonna have to suck that up. My personal favorites included the topic of acting versus reacting, as well as having agency in one's story.

Striga's battle theme was cool, but otherwise, the music was forgettable. Yes, that is a sin. Punishable by Death? In this series, maybe!

The gore's still over the top. Which, okay, fine. There's a bit of that in game. It's just generally a bit more reserved with it or uses it in crucial boss fights.

RIP doggie.

The Targoviste plot's a bit of a wash, but it doesn't feel as useless as Trevor and Sypha's previous plot predicament. It's just nothing of a surprise, considering how many times the writing has played the "authority figures are useless" and "dark secret surprise" tropes in this series. Like, Greta being reliable is actually more surprising than anything with this plot.

I cannot emphasize enough how boring I found Carmilla's interpretation and plot arc. You guys could have had a giant, naked lesbian riding a skull and spewing magic at people while her cat-eared girlfriend jumped them for extra damage. But no. Vanilla lady with a scarlet sword for you. So long. Farewell. Auf Wiedersehen. Good night.

Gotta say, as much of a deviation from his source character as he is, Isaac really turned out well in this series. He's definitely evidence that you don't always need to stick to source material.

His Abel is fucking sick, dude. Way to go, king.

Also, I was expecting more violence from Hector this season. Oh, well. At least he got a teeny bit of a spine.

Look. I'm not an alchemist by any means. I'm just a bit baffled by this season's emphasis of obtaining a Rebis. Like, any time the game series has talked about the Magnum Opus of Alchemy, it's more been in pursuit of making a Philosopher's Stone (or at the very least, a Crimson Stone, as seen in "Castlevania: Lament of Innocence.") Pulling a Rebis out of the aether is…well. Could have been more interesting than it was. I mean, it was a bit nightmarish, but it really didn't do much.

Sypha's really never getting back to her family, is she?

Love the idea that the cross subweapon is basically a fancy chakram.

GERGOTH. BUDDY. FRIENDO.

Really appreciating the monster variety in these last two seasons. I mean, that's a big selling point of the "Castlevania" games. Not so much vampires standing around and bickering in dick-waving contests.

Breaking out of the bullet points to hit on the big subject of this season—that is, the ending being surprisingly happy.

There's been a lot of shit that's happened over the last few years. Obviously, a pandemic. Konami's run by pricks. Then, there's the situation with the allegations of sexual coercion with Warren Ellis. Additionally, the terrible ending of "Game of Thrones" likely impacted how this season was developed, considering it seemed to be chasing its progression in construction. (I mean, look at Carmilla and Daenerys.) I don't know how many people were happy with the last season of "Castlevania," but from my POV, it double-tapped itself in the foot with the way it pushed simultaneous sex and violence in its last two episodes. My point is, there was little taste for additional darkness, considering everything that has been happening. Society is drained.

A happy ending was what people really wanted. And man, did this pull through, in that regard. But, there's a conversation to be had in if this swerved too far or if it violates some artistic integrity to give people what they want. So, let's have it.

Look. Man. Have you seen a "Castlevania" ending? When you do it right, it's crumbled castles and rainbow-colored skies. If you do it really right, it results in a pretty girl holding the main character's hand. There is happiness in these games. Hope. Forgiveness and redemption. If this is supposed to be any bit an accurate interpretation of these games, it absolutely should end in such a joyful fashion. (Okay, maybe giving Dracula and Lisa a second honeymoon at the end was a bit much, but I get where people would want that.)

Did some items need to be addressed more? Absolutely. Alucard staking people and Hector getting sexually coerced into servitude are some pretty big topics to just wave away. (Oh, shit. That second part is even worse now with what Ellis was allegedly doing, isn't it?) I suppose I'm just glad the series didn't go full Sephiroth with Alucard. And at least Hector finally took some stand in his situation, even if it wasn't the bombastic, hateful revenge I'm used to seeing from this character in other stories.

I think the creators of this series were trying to save this show from the fate of "Game of Thrones." (To some extent, perhaps the "Voltron" re-interpretation as well.) There's so much media out there anymore that if a production team doesn't nail the ending, their creation gets wiped out of the collective consciousness. To that extent, I think the creators were successful in saving their series. Did it do damage to itself in yanking out of its construction and themes? A bit. But, in doing so, it pivoted back to being more like a proper "Castlevania" product. (And of course, by proper, I mean anything ignoring "Lords of Shadows." God, people need to stop chasing other products when developing "Castlevania" stuff and just let the series be as it is.)

I am very curious as to how much of this season was part of an original draft and how much was revised in backlash to everything that has happened. It doesn't seem like Trevor was intended to survive, but to some extent, Sypha had to. (I mean, until she has a kid, anyway. See "Lords of Shadows" series for dickery regarding that.) I'm also wondering if there was more intended for the Carmilla subplot, as much as the series was banging on about her invading locations. I'm not even sure St. Germain was intended to be a villain all along. Getting into a bitchfight with Death? Sure. Doing what he did here? That's a weird arc, dude.

If you come away from my POV with anything, it should be this: GO PLAY THE GAMES.

Do it. Do it, you ghouls. Go to the Steam store and download the "Castlevania Anniversary Collection." Boot up your PS3 or 4 or 18 or whatever and get "Symphony of the Night." Throttle Nintendo's stores until "Aria of Sorrow" or "Dawn of Sorrow" or "Harmony of Dissonance" or whatever rattles out of their moldy pockets. Find a ROM. Find an ISO. Just play a game. Especially, one of the ones made before 2010.

"Castlevania" as a game series isn't about hordes of vampires dick-waving at each other or edgy swearing or being grim and dark. Some of that stuff's there, sure. But, at its core, it's what game developers created when they looked at Universal Monster Movie creations and went "That's cool. Let's fight that!" It's a series about pushing technology in MMC chips to make rich, vibrant music. It's about flourishing artwork and layers of sprites dripping particles and gore onto players. It's sober and goofy and very pro curry.

The thing is, "Castlevania" players have their own unique connection to the series. We're the weirdos you see clapping their hands when a mutilated dinosaur shows up on screen. It's not because the monster alone is cool. It's that we've fought and struggled and bodied that thing through several floors like a goddamn "X-Men: Children of the Atom" stage. It's kicked our asses. We've kicked its ass. We've got a connection to it that you just don't get from passively watching it barf lasers through a computer monitor or TV screen. Like, you know how people go, "Well, the movie wasn't as good as the book?" It's obnoxious, sure. But, those who read the source materials have to go to the effort of constructing their own sets and people to understand what's happening. In a similar fashion, game players build up their own skill set to reach that next rung.

Maybe you don't always get a payout when you invest your resources into something. But, there is a sense of accomplishment, seeing what you can do.

There's a reason this series got an adaptation. I mean, outside of Konami's head executives wanting easy money. "Castlevania" is a fantastic video game series. Has it got a few problems? Oh yeah. Especially after outsourcing and pachislot machines became all the rage. But, there's a reason Simon and Richter Belmont are playable in "Super Smash Bros. Ultimate." There's a reason I spent a significant amount of time playing these games and writing or drawing fanworks for it. These games are wonderful. Beautiful. Difficult, but inspiring. Reasons I will still bang on about them decades years down the road.

When I get exasperated by layers of angst and edge lord content this Netflix series generated, I want you to know why. The roots of this show are good games held captive under poor management. Some people on staff know this. I wish they had more scenario and writing control. But mostly, I don't want to shit on them or their work. (Well, other than perhaps the obvious target.) I just want you to see what I love in these games.

And also to watch Crashervania. Because that's legit.

#castlevania #netflix castlevania #spoilers #tl;dr play ball or SOTN or a Sorrow game or something

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ss9slb · 4 years ago

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Princes of the Undead

Part 3 Chapter 17 part b

----/---

The flagstones were cold under her knees, but Agatha didn’t flinch; being dead had to have some advantages. Regardless of her undead state, Agatha’s muscle memory was still there even after all these years, in fact there were moments when the last 125 years almost seemed like a fever dream. Her life as a vampire, Dracula, the modern world she had become a part of did not encroach on the tranquillity of the nunnery. The liturgy of the Latin, the itch of the habit against her flesh, skin which had grown spoilt from the fine fabrics her lover, no her fiancé, had seen her clothed in.

All around her heads were bowed in her earnest prayer, her small company of sisters, and yet Agatha’s own pleas were addressed to a far different source. It made her feel like a fraud, Agatha hadn’t really prayed during the services in months, she no longer really believed in an almighty lord. Yet she didn’t feel guilt about not praying to their god, maybe a little about misleading the kind sisters, instead Agatha used this time to clear her mind and concentrate on that link in her mind that tied her to Dracula. Reaching their connection was like sinking into a warm embrace, not strong enough for words or images, but feelings flowed easily, Dracula’s felt especially strong, but Agatha wasn’t certain he was strong enough to pick up on her feelings over such a distance.

Over the last few months, Agatha had felt a wide range of feelings from her intended…Anger, lots of anger and impatience, but also a sense of excitement, almost anticipation, he was enjoying himself; if it were not for the all-pervading feeling of loneliness Agatha might have thought Dracula was barely missed her at all. Not that her own time hadn’t been full of their own challenges. On the first days following washing up on that Corsican beach Agatha had toyed with the idea of heading back to London. Yet Mycroft’s warning and her own circumstances had encouraged her play it safe, to stick with the hiding and waiting approach. So instead she had headed in the opposite direction, to a home of a different sort; and although hiding out in Dracula’s castle had a certain appeal, Agatha knew it was also foolhardy, so she settled for the little town convent and hid herself in plain sight.

Yet Agatha couldn’t pretend part of her wasn’t getting a little impatient.

It had been four months to the day since that fateful night, surely whatever was keeping Dracula away and so tense must be over by now? Perhaps it was wishful thinking on her part, but it almost felt like their bond was strengthening, almost like Dracula was drawing ever closer, and Agatha had to keep her hope under strict regulation. But despite her best attempts Agatha couldn’t ignore the growing certainty that Dracula was coming to find her, finally, that he would find her soon…and not just her.

Agatha had to resist the urge to touch her stomach as she felt the delicate little fluttering within her, a fluttering that grew stronger by the day. The first time she had felt it Agatha hadn’t believed it; it wasn’t a sensation she had ever expected to feel, not after she had taken her vows and certainly not after she had died. In fact, it had taken at least three times before she had come to accept the truth, that wasn’t simply imagining it, that she was carrying Dracula’s child. Their child. If it wasn’t the height of blasphemy to say so in a consecrated place, Agatha would have considered it a miracle.

“Sister Agatha…”

Blinking in surprise Agatha looked up realising the in her own musings she had missed the end of services and that her sisters had left her behind…well most of them had, Mother Superior had remained behind. Standing as mark of respect Agatha was surprised when the other nun merely waved her to take a seat in the pew, before herself sinking to sit down beside her.

“This is not the first time I have found you lost in prayer my child; your devotion is a credit to you.”

Agatha was relieved vampires couldn’t blush, for the proof of such undeserved praise would historically have been written across her cheeks. Instead she bowed her head, doing her best to avoid the scrutinising gaze of the nun that had been kind enough to take pity on her; taking her in when Agatha had turned up on her doorstep pleading for a place to hide. That she had done so without asking any awkward questions really had been a miracle, but it was not one that Agatha had expected to need for so long.

“However, devotion alone…” Mother Superior added and now it was her turn to blush, a blush that sent a pang of hunger rushing through Agatha. She needed to feed soon, and each time it took more and more to sate her hunger, the occasional thefts of blood from the local hospital were no longer enough…another development to blame on her little hitch hiker.

“…My child when you arrived here asking for sanctuary I didn’t ask questions about why, I just assumed you had regretted your choice to leave the sanctuary of the church, and I was happy to accept you into our little sisterhood.” The elderly nun trailed off, suddenly bashful for such a normally forthright woman.

“Are you asking me to leave Mother?” Agatha prompted her gently, reaching out to lightly cover the nun’s hand, regretting the impulse slightly when she could now feel the rush of a thready pulse beneath the wrinkled exterior.

“Yes, I’m afraid I am… not immediately of course, I wouldn’t simply cast you aside, I just feel that for a woman in your condition…” she paused, knowing eyes glancing down to Agatha’s stomach, and lingering there until her point was made… “well there are more appropriate places than a convent.”

“My condition.” Agatha began, before adding honestly. “I didn’t think it was so noticeable.”

“Perhaps not to my sisters, many have poor enough eyesight, but I used to be a midwife before I joined the sisterhood. Besides you are so tall, and this is your first is it now? So, it is not as obvious as it might be, but to a trained eye the signs were obvious.” Mother Superior added with a hint of a smile. “Your lover is the…”

“Father, yes he is.” Agatha finished for her. “And we are to be married, just as soon as he can come and find me, this child is very much wanted by both of us.”

“And yet you have hidden yourself away here?”

“It’s…it’s complicated.” That was the understatement of the century, and yet somehow Agatha managed to say it with a straight face.

“My dear, I hate to introduce an element of doubt but how can you be so certain? He would hardly be the first man to run away from his responsibilities, and that you have been left to fend for yourself and at such a time…”

“Mother forgive me you don’t know him. You don’t understand just what we have gone through together, I know Vlad would never ever just give up on me. He is coming, I guarantee within the month I will no longer be imposing on you…”

“Personally, I would say by the end of the day.” A familiar cocksure voice called out from down the aisle, interrupting Agatha’s impassioned defence and causing both nuns to whirl around in the pew.

Leaning against a stone pillar Dracula took in his first sight of Agatha in months. It was like being flung back in time, complete with habit and that piercing stare of hers. Only knowing her as intimately as he did, allowed Dracula to discern the different flickers of emotion, surprise, relief, even joy, before she settled back into her default expression of looking irritated with him…oh how he had missed that glare.

“Oh, now this takes me back…Sister Agatha it is such a delight to renew our acquaintance.” Dracula was amused beyond anything to see Agatha once again dressed as a nun, a suggestive grin spreading across his lips as he imagined disrobing her from such an outfit, or perhaps insisting she kept it on?

“Well if you didn’t wait four months there wouldn’t be a need to renew anything.” Agatha huffed, getting to her feet but refusing to be the one who went to him, he had kept her waiting and not the other way around. “What on earth could have been so pressing?”

“Oh, Sister many many things, but as of right now I cannot think of one that was worth the price. Come here beloved and I will show just how much I regret the delay.” Dracula retorted dragging his gaze up and down, licking his top lip as he practically salivated over his bride all dressed up and ready for him to ravish.

“Young man this is a house of god, we will have none of that behaviour here.” Mother Superior muttered, as there was no denying which gutter, even for a nun, just where their new arrival’s mind was.

“Oh, my good lady I very rarely behave myself.” Dracula added with a smile that could usually crack even the oldest and sternest facades.

“Yes, I can well believe it young man, men that look like you do very rarely have to.” Mother Superior added saucily, much to Agatha’s astonishment and Dracula’s delight. Dracula was so amused at being winked at by an elderly nun who is several centuries his junior, he was barely bothered by her interruption of their reunion and delay in his ravishment plans…his castle was relatively close and the things he wanted to do to Agatha required time and privacy.

Agatha was less than impressed by his retort, and lack of any sort of explanation or apology. Still she held her tongue until Mother Superior left them alone together, but if Dracula just thought he could walk in here and after four months….

“Ah so I’m still in the doghouse then.” Dracula took Agatha’s crossed arms and raised eyebrow as a challenge, winking back at the Mother Superior as she left, he stepped closer with the swagger of the devil.

“Would it help if I said I was very very sorry?”

“Hmmph…”

“Would it help if I got down on my knees?”

Dracula paused, dropping all too dramatically to his knees, his hands raised to the vaulted roof in supplication, yet he watched Agatha’s reaction closely, taking her barely contained roll of the eyes to mean that no it wouldn’t. Shuffling forward rather awkwardly on his knees, Dracula tried not to think about how these flagstones would be ruining his expensive Italian silk suit trousers.

“If I confessed all my sins and asked for absolution?”

Snorting Agatha shook her head, unable to contain a wry smirk as she retorted. “No one has that sort of time to waste.”

Returning Agatha’s smirk with a growing smile of his own, Dracula caught and held her gaze. “If I shouted that I love you and that I was a fool not to come sooner? For will, I will from this very belfry if…”

“Oh, get up you silly fool, no one in this town deserves to have their sleep disturbed by you and your silly shouting.” Agatha’s patience for his silliness and her own resolve to keep him at arm’s length finally at an end.

Staggering to his feet as ordered, Dracula’s shit eating grin turned soft as he closed the remaining paces between them. “Hello beloved, I have missed you.”, he said staring down to Agatha’s face, taking in the minute changes in her features, ones that only he would notice.

“You look pale, you haven’t been eating enough.” Dracula concluded, catching Agatha’s chin between his fingers. “Were you that worried I wouldn’t be coming for you?”

“Honestly your ego.” Agatha swiped his hand away from her chin but retained her grip on his fingers, part of her almost afraid he would vanish like some terrible dream. “Of course, I knew you would come; I’m just a little cross it seemed to take you so long.”

“I had good reason; I couldn’t risk bringing you back before I was certain it was safe.” Here Dracula paused, his gaze lingering on their surroundings. “And besides you seem to have found somewhere safe to hide away.”

“Yes…I…did.” Agatha emphasised every word with a jab to his chest, the unspoken no thanks to you, hitting home far deeper than any stake.

“I wanted to come every day, Agatha you have to believe that. Every day apart was agony for me.”

Part of her wanted to keep him dangling longer, to torment him the way not knowing had tormented her over the last few months. Yet the majority of Agatha now wanted to forget the past, to step into the love that was so openly on display. Slipping her hands up around his neck, Agatha allowed her relief to show on her face, blinking back the tears that threatened to break free.

“We forgive you.”

Smiling back Dracula leant forward, pressing first a chaste kiss to her upturned mouth, savouring the way Agatha smiled into it, then another light teasing kiss…before the niggle of a question irritated him enough to stop.

“We as in the royal we, or do you now speak on behalf of your almighty god my Darling?”

This time Agatha didn’t even try to contain her knowing grin from splitting her face, her eyes alight with the mirth of having a secret.

“I might advise you that hubris rarely ends well.” Dracula teased as Agatha’s mischievous reaction continued to pique his interest.

“Oh well I think I am empowered to speak on this entity’s behalf.” Agatha bantered back, savouring Vlad’s look of complete confusion. “We both love you very much you see…” She paused, sliding her hand down the firm plains of his chest, capturing his hand and bringing it to rest over the slight curve of her abdomen.

---/---

#dragatha #bbc dracula #dracula netflix #sister agatha #dracula fanfic

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anncanta · 4 years ago

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Dracula BBC as an alchemical novel

I noticed a long time ago that the stories that S. Moffat and M. Gatiss tell do not just have two or three layers (in fact, much more), but most often turn out to be such a complex field in which all the numerous levels work independently and at the same time manage to merge into a holistic melody. Actually, this is why their texts often ‘from the outside’ look strange, incomprehensible or meaningless (apart from those cases when they really are like this).

The thing is that stories of this kind are arranged in such a way that the plot, as a frame, ‘holding’ ideas and meanings on itself, is, so to speak, open — like a system of corridors leading in different directions, up and down, into those dimensions of the narrative that are currently needed by the authors in order to convey their statement.

In this respect, the genre is very important, because by structuring the story at the formal level, it allows, let’s say, to enter it and understand where to move from the entrance. And there — well, depending on how far you are willing to go.

One of the best definitions of the Dracula genre that I have seen among the reviews written so far is a metaphysical detective.

Some might say that the term looks artificial, but bearing in mind that the story itself seems to be enough… hybrid, it would be fine to start a conversation.

This really has everything a good detective novel needs, plus philosophical and (almost) religious motives organically woven into the narrative, the idea of self-knowledge that pushes the boundaries of any genre, and a mysterious ending. So it’s easy to agree with the above definition.

But I would say that this is an alchemical novel.

Let me remind those who have not come across the works of C.G. Jung, who in his later work paid much attention to alchemy and secret religious practices: in the context of his research, alchemy is a way of self-knowledge and one’s own psyche in order to achieve a higher level of development and gaining mental and spiritual integrity.

History of literature knows several rather interesting attempts to describe the alchemical Work and, since cinema in this sense is no worse, if you wish, you can immediately name a dozen films that also touch on this topic. Well, Sherlock, being viewed from a certain angle quite fits into this paradigm, and I will not even start about Harry Potter — this is a classic of Jungian thought, expressed in literature and successfully transferred to the cinema.

What about Dracula? Everything is very interesting in it.

The first thing to note is that Dracula’s structure is not a mini-series. It’s not a TV show at all. This is a three-part film, all parts of which are closely related to each other so that none of them can be ‘taken out’ from the text without losing meaning and understanding what is happening here.

The second, — it is undoubtedly a novel. The novel as a genre has many definitions, I will not give them here, I will only mention an element that is important for our conversation, without which a modern novel is impossible. This is the growing up and inner change of the hero. If the hero came to the end of the work, being not the same he was at the beginning, most likely we have a novel. Another question is how the hero came to these changes.

And here the third aspect is important — the way the story is told and the ‘language’ used by the authors.

Act I

Dracula begins with a young man standing in the middle of a dark forest and waiting for a carriage that will take him to the medieval castle of some mysterious Count. A girl comes out of the carriage in which the young man reached this place, and asks him to take the crucifix with him, assuring him that he will certainly need it. The carriage leaves, the young man remains in the forest.

Look, you can ‘exit’ from this scene both into a gothic novel (in principle, an entertainment genre, to which you can add a couple of additional meanings if you wish) and into an alchemical story. The exposition will be the same. Let’s suppose we are talking about an alchemical novel. For now, just suppose.

Dark forest is a place between worlds, between everyday life and the other world, between consciousness and unconsciousness, between daytime reality and nighttime. Place of transition, no one’s land. The laws of consciousness are no longer dominant here, but the unconscious does not yet dominate. You can also talk with those who live in the real world and get from them the so-called ‘magic item’, which may help the hero in the future, but it is already difficult to return. And — what is important — you can only travel further with a guide from the unconscious. Carriages from the outside world don’t go there.

The young man is picked up by a strange cart with a mysterious charioteer, after which, having driven some distance through the forest, he finds himself at the gates of an ancient castle. Going inside, he sees an empty room and a table set for dinner. This is the second point of transition if you follow the logic of archetypal storytelling. While Johnny is nothing more than a guest, a stranger, a man who has nothing to do with this castle or its inhabitants. He crossed the border of the unconscious but did not enter into a relationship with it. And here he does what the fairy tales strongly advise against doing to everyone who finds himself in such circumstances — he tries local food.

The game is on. From that moment — not from the first bite, but from this moment, Johnny enters the reality of Dracula, the reality of his castle, and begins to interact with forces that are incomprehensible and beyond his control.

But this is not the most interesting thing.

Let’s skip the moment of the Count`s appearance — here the authors again make a nod to the gothic novel, and the whole situation logically unfolds like an old horror movie, exactly until the moment when several new details appear in the narrative.

The first is the invisible inhabitants of the castle, who write on the glass with inverted letters ‘save us’, and the second is a journey through the castle-labyrinth and the discovery of the map.

Remember I said that this story could be a gothic novel, and the plot is quite like a gothic novel? So, forget it. From now, there is no way to return to this genre. The gothic novel is about controlled horror. It’s about tickling your nerves in a safe environment. In this form, it moved into the cinema and settled there in the form of horror films. It has no other functions and building blocks. Moreover, the symbolic details. The scary house there is always just a scary house, and the worms crawl out of the walking dead because it looks disgusting, and the viewers love the thrill.

But let’s back to Dracula.

Why are the castle-labyrinth and map important? On a metaphorical level, the house represents a person, that Self that a person knows, ‘builds’ throughout life and which belongs to it. A castle-labyrinth in which it is easy to get lost, which does not have a map, indicates a lost person.

And it was not Johnny who was here lost.

Have you ever thought about why, after being sucked dry and killed, the lawyer threw himself from the roof of the castle and was fished out of the river by fishermen, Dracula did not leave him alone and went to the convent after him?

What does this ‘bride’ mean to him, in no use as a food, dagger stares and pursed lips, and even threatens to fight Dracula while walking on the ground? Although it is doubtful he could fight — he could barely keep his feet.

Pride? Wounded amour-propre? A sense of ownership?

No.

In order to understand why Dracula came for Johnny, you need to return to the search for the map and remember where Harker found it.

In the depths of one of the corridors of the castle hung two portraits — the image of the architect who built the house and his wife. About which ones the architect himself refers in his notes as the Moon and the Sun.

It is noteworthy that a woman is the Sun here, while in the alchemical tradition, the solar energy is male, and the lunar energy is female. I think this is part of the inverted reality of the Count`s psyche, where landmarks are confused and roles are changed. For what it’s worth, such landmarks are enough for Harker to find a way out.

But it’s important for us to understand who Johnny is.

He is not a victim of Count Dracula. Rather, from the point of view of the plot, he is his victim, but at the symbolic level, his function is completely different.

Jonathan Harker is a figure from the outside world who comes to the house of a person whose psyche is immersed in chaos, who himself does not know what is in his house, and is able to get lost in it himself, keeps monsters in the basement and feeds on them. This person has lost touch with reality in the literal sense of the word. (For anyone interested, read about literalized metaphors in British literature.) And then someone comes to him, and involuntarily begins to order his chaotic world.

It is no coincidence that during one of his conversations with the Count Johnny hears a crying baby. At the level of the plot, this is a real baby that Dracula carries for his next ‘bride’ imprisoned in the basement of the castle. But at the symbolic level, where all the inhabitants of the castle are parts of the soul of the Count himself, the baby is his split-off child self. Of course, destined for murder. And turned into a child of the night.

What happens next? At the moment when the process of ordering the psyche and contact with the outside world is launched, it is already difficult to stop it. Therefore, Dracula with a manic passion rushes to the convent and tries to regain Johnny. But the function of the guide has been exhausted. Other forces come into play.

Act II

The central scene of what is happening in the convent is undoubtedly the scene of the meeting between Dracula and Agatha. And in their meeting, everything is important, literally every detail. Strikingly, it is harmoniously built both on the plot and on the symbolic level. There is literally no redundant element there.

We will only note the main ones so as not to get bogged down in details.

The first moment — Dracula went out into the outside world, but he cannot just appear there. Until now, his whole life has passed in darkness — both literally and symbolically. We do not know what made him so, but he obviously at some point in his life fell back to animal, primitive instincts. Therefore, in order to leave his world and exist in the real, in the world of consciousness, he needs to transform.

This is the first transformation of the hero that we see — when at the gates of the monastery Dracula is ‘born’ from the skin of a beast.

Having been born, he approaches the gates, which are opened to him by a genuine, not escheat, and fake bride — Agatha. Anima.

And she doesn’t give him any indulgences.

In Jungian literature, it is often mentioned that meeting with an archetype is a difficult and rather painful thing. Especially if the person is not ready for it. And, of course, it is extremely dangerous to project archetypal qualities onto a real person who can represent them for a specific man or woman. But this is in life. And a work of art`s entitled to combine symbolic and real layers in one context.

Agatha treats Dracula harshly, in a semblance of an erotic scene, giving an outlet for his insane disordered sexual and animal energy, in some way, ‘shaking’ him and allowing his inner chaos to restructure and acquire a consistency suitable for connecting with the new and the unknown.

And then the victim, close contact, an attempt to absorb — and the hero falls into his Anima and at the same time goes to a new world on a journey on the water.

Act III

I think that the symbolism of water (amniotic fluid, the water of the unconscious, water as an information and life medium) is not worth explaining. But what is happening with Dracula in the sealed world of the mother’s womb — the ship, in order for no one to have any doubts, called Demeter, needs to be considered more closely.

From this moment, from the moment when his romance with Agatha starts and begins to develop, Dracula’s relations with other people become extremely important. Until now, he had no relationships with people. The ‘brides’ in the castle are nothing more than food and separate parts of his own personality. The first person he established a real relationship with was Johnny. And this — on one of the levels — is another reason why Dracula was so attached to him. You never forget first love.

On Demeter, the Count consecutively comes into contact with several people.

What kind of people they are is very important.

The first is still just a victim. A sailor-helmsman, whom Dracula eats only because he needs a specific quality that the man has. This is how children are friends with those from whom you can ask for a useful thing or write off homework. After the object’s function is completed, the friendship ends.

It’s more difficult with the Grand Duchess. This is a story about memory, desire, and youth, Dracula`s question to himself — can I be liked, and if I can, then why: because my appearance evokes memories of youth or because I am interesting on my own? The dance as part of their interaction indicates an attempt to ‘taste’ the relationship (the Anima looks in-depth with a smile) but turns into a bloodbath.

What is important here is that as the ship sails further into the sea, and the relationship between Dracula and Agatha becomes more and more intimate, the Count begins to get more and more nervous, and his instincts, at first completely tamed for a distant goal, become more and more out of control.

He collected these passengers in advance, calculating how many people he needed to eat in order to safely get to England. And in the first two days, he ate half of them. The tension rises, the anxiety elevates, no one is safe. Including Dracula.

The meeting with Dorabella on deck (I just want to say — ‘date’) is a naive attempt to flirt, a conscious — not a vampire’s natural — desire to please, a short, but independently built with great difficulty dialogue. The portrayal of her possible married life shown to the girl is a gift that is discouraging in its brutality. And the conclusion: no, nothing will come of it. ‘I am a vampire.’

But if you have already gone out into the outside world, do not expect that you will be able to hide. Whatever you think, but you have made your choice.

After the murder of Dorabella, the ship literally ‘boils’, the hidden truth comes to the surface in the literal sense, and Agatha reappears on the scene.

Act IV

Many viewers ask: why did Agatha take command of the ship?

And who else should be the captain of the ship called Demeter under these circumstances?

Falcons give way to turtle doves.

But let’s back to the text.

The confrontation-connection of Dracula and his Anima lasts for some time, after which it logically ends with immersion of both in water.

And here is another interesting point. The first part of the alchemical Work is completed, the hero went through two transformations, began to communicate with living people, and even made some progress, but in order to consolidate the result, the psyche must close off from the world and allow deep processes to take place inside. Therefore, Dracula falls asleep at the bottom for 123 years, and Agatha fell off the map.

In the XXI century, the updated Count discovers that everything has changed, but the hunt for vampires is still relevant, and he himself is quite ready for new achievements.

The trouble is that he has already learned the taste of the genuine, and therefore surrogates are not to his liking.

When I watched the film for the first and second time, I just couldn’t understand why Lucy was needed there. Silly, superficial, narcissistic, she has no interest in anything other than herself and her Instagram images.

‘How could such a girl interest Dracula?!’ viewers around the world yell. And they are right.

How indeed?

Well, she couldn't.

In order to understand what Lucy’s role in this story is, you need to watch the film from the very beginning. Then it becomes clear that Dracula’s relationship with her, their dialogues, interaction, jokes and flirting, her willingness to voluntarily let him drink her blood is a complete parallel, a repetition of the Count’s relationship with Agatha. Having found the experience of deep love within himself and has found a connection with his soul, the hero is desperately trying to reproduce it — and fails.

Review these scenes. How he looks at Lucy, how he walks arm in arm with her, how he tells her what a brave and extraordinary girl she is, how he holds her on his lap, and asks where she wants to go. In fact, he does everything he did with Agatha. But doing all this, he has empty eyes. An indifferent look, mechanical movements, and bitterness at the bottom. He has a young beautiful woman in his arms, she is obviously in love with him, although she hides it, she is ready for anything to make him feel good. And he is bored.

In the eyes turned to Lucy, not the greed of a vampire is — there are darkness, sadness, and endless repetition: ‘Not her, not her, not her.’

But the psyche, especially the psyche of an adult, does not simply abandon its habits, so Dracula repeats with Lucy the entire cycle that has already passed with all his ‘brides’. The catch is that Lucy is not attached to him, but to admiration for her own beauty, and when beauty disappears, their illusory connection falls apart, turning into horror and contempt. But here, too, not everything is so simple.

In the scene in Dracula’s house, where Lucy realizes who she has become, an important parallel arises.

Look. There are four characters in the room. The situation is difficult, tense, the conflict reaches its limit until it is resolved through love. But how is it resolved?

I mean, what does it look like structurally?

It’s very simple. The man and the ‘monster’ stand and watch the kissing of the man and the ‘monster’ next to them.

And then something happens not only with Jack and Lucy, who finally managed to find peace but also with Dracula. This is the highest point from which there is only one path — to catharsis. The fact that Agatha led him there is logical and obvious, but up to this point, he was not ready for it.

And the final scene. When all the pieces are on the board, all conflicts are realized and all the ghosts are brought to light, there are no enemies left. Except for himself. Except for that, which he didn’t allow himself to do. Except for the fear of being yourself.

The ending of this film is the pinnacle of the alchemical process. Transformation. At the level of the plot, physical death, freeing a five-hundred-year-old vampire and a woman who loved him for many years. And at the symbolic level — going beyond one’s own limits and gaining integrity.

Therefore, in the final, we see the sun. The sun is a symbol of a purified consciousness, transformed and fully realized itself.

Epilogue

For those to whom the interpretation that I have presented here seems strange or stretch, I will separately note the following. Any interpretation is, to one degree or another, a figment of the imagination of the viewer or reader, although, unlike postmodern literary scholars, I believe that there are right and wrong interpretations. And the correct interpretation is not at all what the author wanted to say. This is what the story wanted to say. Often they are not the same thing.

And the second, closely related to the first: no, I do not think that S. Moffat and M. Gatiss put such meaning in their story. I think that European culture, with its multi-layered nature and the ability to reflect on complex experiences through symbolic stories, is that powerful semantic field that generates such tales regardless of the wishes of screenwriters and writers. And that seems wonderful to me.

#dracula 2020 #bbc dracula #count dracula #agatha van helsing #meta

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hamburgerhelpersotherhand · 5 years ago

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Château P2

Castlevania x Reader

Warnings: 🧛Mentions of blood and crying like a big baby.

Notes: Alucard is pretty yumm

You’re not sure how long it had been since the sun had set.

You seem to be rather lucky at the moment, finding a path in such a thick forest and all. Of course, you guess that following it will lead you to some sort of populated area. But, how lucky can you really be? Your decorative slippers are beginning to wear down, your dress is partially ripped from the low hanging branches and your hair resembles a rat’s nest.

Obviously, no giant mutant bats have approached you because you’re much more putrid than they find themselves to be.

Hold on.

You stop in your tracks for a moment, noticing a flickering light in the distance. You remind yourself of things that emit light and come to the conclusion that what you’re seeing in the far distance is a lantern.

Following a strange light doesn’t seem very smart but you’re sure your options are more than exhausted if you don’t.

So you take off after the brilliant glow of this newly discovered lantern. Your steps don’t make much noise, but the crunch of the dead leaves make quite the ruckus.

An ear piercing screech can be heard somewhere high above and behind you. Of course those foul beasts kept following you. There’s no way they wouldn’t!

As you continue to run, you notice the lantern nearly vanishes into the brush.

Desperate, you call out. “HELP!”

The lantern seems to come back for a moment, but that moment is cut short as your foot catches itself under a root and pulls you down with it. You tumble for the third time this day, but this fall was much harder than the others. Sharp rocks rip at whatever parts of your dress previously lay untouched by branches, your palms scrape onto rough stone and you swear you heard something break.

You try to stand, but your knees buckle and drop you back down. As a result of being unable to stand, you cave in on yourself. The sore pains are really starting to kick in.

Another shriek cuts itself through the area and you begin to cry at the thought of being mauled by those vicious beasts. You can’t help it. Everything feels hopeless at this very moment. Your most desperate wish is to be back in Carmilla’s oddly cold silk sheeted bed.

The creatures land with a gush of wind. You only cower.

Their snarls are low and shake the ground as they come near. But... they stop their approach. You know this because they’re no longer moving and you’re no longer breathing. You’re holding your breath, listening. And they’re listening too.

Before you know it, they take off again.

Did they think you were dead? Your heart is hammering against your rib cage and there’s no way they couldn’t have heard it.

Once you can no longer hear their wings, you open a single eye to observe. Then you open the other as you sit up.

You’re still alone? You attempt to stand again, but your legs give way just as easily as they had before. As you feel around, you come to notice a growing trickle of blood gliding down your arm. You’ve... never been cut before. The thought of it begins to numb you, your arm feeling like it’s never been there rather than still being by your side. Your fingertips vibrate with a newfound fear. Blood doesn’t usually worry you, but seeing your own blood does. In the open, it lets others know you’re a free meal.

“Are you alright?” Asks a strangely calm voice. This time, it isn’t in your head, but rather an outsider. You manage to twist yourself to see the owner of such a sultry sound.

“Who are you?” You ask defensively toward the familiar blond beauty, managing to stand quickly yet unsteadily. Your legs can give out at any moment, but you’re pushing them to their fullest out of fear.

You notice his golden gaze sets itself on your arm’s wound. You catch on and speak up rather quickly. “I-I’ve got a lot of run in me.”

The stranger quirks a brow as he steps forward. You take a step back, trying your best to match him, but one misstep causes you to land firmly on your ass.

“I see that. You’re quite the fighter.”

That remark reminds you of your cowardly display moments ago, curled up in the dirt and crying. Your face heats up.

“You’re bleeding-“

“Are you going to eat me?” You cut him off.

He seems taken aback by your sudden question.

“That depends.” He playfully smiles your way, gesturing as he speaks. “Are you offering yourself up to me?”

You’re surprised and a little pissed by his words. Of course you would never offer yourself up to anyone. Whether it be by choice or not, Carmilla would never let you hear the end of it.

The stranger grimaces at your expression.

Behind him, a woman’s voice speaks. “We need to keep walking, Alucard.”

Alucard?

“A-Adrian Tepes?” You suddenly say with your newfound information. You knew you recognized him from somewhere.

“How do you know that name?” He asks, a scowl present on his face.

“There are portraits that resemble you in the castle— Dracula’s castle.”

The woman shows herself from behind the man. She’s human. “You’ve been in the castle?”

“Yes— I actually don’t know where I am right now. You see, I fell into a mirror and landed here.” You must sound crazy to anyone who hadn’t witnessed the mirror themselves.

“I see.” Alucard speaks lowly.

“I’ve never been this far from my mistress. I think I’ve been handling myself well, but you’re the first people I’ve encountered thus far.”

The woman exchanges a look with Alucard and whispers to him. “Mistress?” You don’t think she understands. “Come with us. We can drop you off at the next town, if that’s what you want.”

You shake your head. “No, no. What I want is to return to the castle.” You’re beginning to speak frantically. “Please, I don’t know how well I’ll fair during these times!”

The woman looks back to Alucard. He nods to her before taking the reigns and speaking for the both of them.

“We’ll bring you.”

The woman angrily yells out. “Alucard! We can’t bring her, she can’t fight.”

Meanwhile, Alucard seems to be rather composed as he watches you. “But she proves to be a good distraction.”

As they bicker about your use, your head begins to weigh down, your eyes flutter shut with barely any control and sound is but a fading memory. Your hand reaches over to your arm and you draw back to find your hand covered in blood. Huh. You guess you’ve been bleeding this entire time.

Your head violently comes in contact with the ground and you black out almost instantly.

When you come to, you find yourself lightly swaying. Then you begin to notice the noise. Something like.. hooves kicking up dirt.

You bolt upright with wide eyes and take in your surroundings.

You’re on the back of a wooden wagon drawn by horses. Around you is an old fur coat, no doubt to keep you warm.

“How was the nap?” Alucard asks, bringing your attention to him. He’s seated on the edge of the wagon, his sight set on you.

“Is she finally awake?” Asks a gruff, borderline uninterested voice.

“Yes, she’s awake.” You reply bitterly.

“Good. We can leave her at the next town.” The man shoots back.

Alucard smiles in your direction, feeling quite amused by the short exchange.

“I’m Sypha.” The woman from before speaks. You turn around and spot her looking your way. She’s sitting next to the strange angry man you had just spoken to. He appears just as you had imagined. Dirty. “This is Trevor.”

“My name is Y/N.” You share and Sypha smiles your way.

“I bandaged you up.” She says. “If you still want to join us you’re more than welcomed to—“

“Excuse me-“ Trevor attempts to cut in but is in-turn cut from the conversation entirely.

“—but please know that it’s not safe.”

You nod your head after giving it some thought. There’s no other options on the table. Staying at a nearby town can still result in your death, at least by returning to the castle you’re becoming Carmilla’s problem once again. Besides... you’re starting to miss her.

“Were you and your mistress close?” Alucard asks.

You look his way and nod your head once more.

“If I may ask: what’s she like?”

“She’s very bossy.” You say, looking elsewhere as the conversation continues. “But I know it’s because she wants what’s best for me.”

“Does she treat you well?”

“Oh course she does!” You snap. “In her own way, she’s very caring. What are you trying to get at?”

“Just prying.” Alucard sighs as he looks into the forest.

You cross your arms and look the other way, stating something very matter-of-factly in a tone that, if heard by the right person, sounds like you’re not so sure yourself. “She cares. So— you can just keep quiet.”

The forest was quite boring to stare at. It almost felt as though you were staring into some endless void as the silent moment went by. Tree here, tree there.

#castlevania x reader #castlevania #alucard #adrian tepes #adrian tepes x reader #alucard x reader #carmilla #carmilla x reader #vlad dracula tepes #dracula #vampire #vampire x reader

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rubik-ashala · 4 years ago

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Let Alucard have nice things!

This doubles as both a headcanon description and a rant so here goes:

I just got done watching the 3rd season of Castlevania and I am not happy. I have two things two say about it. This contains spoilers for the series so you have been warned.

First complaint and observation:

Did anybody get the feeling that the show was supposed to end after the second season but didn't? That everything was wrapped up nicely, Dracula was dead, the big world destruction war was halted, we were shown what the trio would be doing after everything etc. Like it was meant to end there but then a conversation like this happened:

Castlevania team: And that’s a wrap everybody! The good guys took down Dracula in an epic fight, the world was saved, Job Done! Time to move on to new things.

Shareholders, producers, etc: Uhh, actually we already signed you up for a 3rd season. So you might want to get on that.

Castlevania Team: What! But we weren't prepared for a third season! The whole plot is wrapped up! What are we supposed to do?

Shareholders, producers, etc: Don’t know but you better get to figuring it out.

Castlevania: I guess we will just game of thrones it terribly then and hope we make it through.

Because that is what it felt like happened. There seemed to be no overarching plot, just four separate ones and only two of them is even remotely together. They take two side characters Issac and Hector and give them there own plotlines. Issac gets the Denarius treatment for no real reason other than to seemingly follow in Dracula’s footsteps and Hector gets dragged to Camilla’s realm because, she needs a forge master to grow an army so she can take over what has been fractured. They split up the trio, suddenly giving Serphia and Trevor a romantic relationship with little to nothing building up to it and throw them in a quest to keep Dracula from coming back after some crazy monks due some occult doctor who style shenanigans to open a portal to other worlds. And while that is going on, Alucard aka Adrian Tepes gets left alone guarding his fathers now broken castle and the Belmont’s treasure trove for months after everything has happened.

Which flows into my Second point:

Alucard got done dirty in the third season!

We watch as Alucard deals with the mental repercussions of what he did, alone. We watch as he deals with the loneliness of being out in the middle of nowhere alone for months with none to talk too. And we see the toll it is taking on him albeit comedically.

Then the siblings come in.

They come to him for help and education on fighting vampires back in their homeland, something that Alucard is more than happy to help with. One, because he has company again and Two, passing on the knowledge to the new generation seemed fitting.

During the time they stay he grows fond of them and they him. You see them training and horsing around, eating meals together and other wholesome shenanigans.

You get to see a conversation where the sibling talk about how they notice how lonely he has been and how they believe he stays out here to punish himself and maybe they should do something for him before they move on. And it’s all like “aww that is so sweet!”

Then you see Alucard trying to sleep and failing miserably in his bed. Even so far as wondering if he should get a coffin to sleep in. Then you see the siblings show up in the door way and begin walking towards him in the bed saying , in a very sultry voice, how alone he must have been, how he should deserve a reward, ectera. Followed by them getting all hot and steamy with him.

The scene makes a point to show how much Alucard is enjoying this attention, and how happy it is making him. Your watching it and it’s like “Maybe it's gonna be one of those fond memories he will be able to look back on after their gone.” or “Maybe they will become some Badass monster hunting thruple and Alucard wont be alone anymore.”

Nope! Not today in my Grim Dark Gothic Fantasy World!

They instead, after giving Alucard the night of his life, put these metal cuffs on him that shoot out a bunch of ropes that tie him in classic Jesus on a cross position and then proceed to try and kill him.

Why?

Because the were under the belief he was lying and holding things back from them, and in particular about the castle not being able to move. And they were tired of being lied to.

Luckily for Alucard they didn't realize his sword could move on its own and they weren’t alive for much longer because of it but...Really?

Why? Why do this to him?

He lost his mother to a witch hunt, he had to kill his own father and now this? All in little over a year? What the Hell man!?

Let the Dhampire have nice things! He deserves better than this!

So, I made a headcannon to soothe me angry brain.

I took a fantasy race of mine that was inspired by the Crusnics of Trinity Blood and added them in to Castlevania. In Particular one specific one.

Name: Floki

Age: Around Adrian’s age give or take a few months.

Hair: Black

Eyes: Mismatched blue/green

Height: About the same as Adrien’s perhaps a little taller.

Personality: Mischevious, HArdworking, Loves deeply, Fiercly but wisely protective, loves to work with his hands, loves to learn more about the world and how it works. Deeply fond of Adrian even though he hasn’t seen him in a few years. Also, a smidge psychotic, but just a smidge.

Floki is part of a race of beings referred to as “The Old Ones”. They are a race similar in habit to the Vampire but they feed off vampires, night creatures and other supernatural beings over humans. They are immensely powerful, even at young ages and have been rumored to be the source of some of the gods of Ancient Mythology.

Floki’s father (Yet named) was Dracula’s mentor and where he got much of his scientific knowledge from in his early years. They became friends during his teaching and even after parting ways, would still occasionally see each other every few half centuries or so to trade information and chat.

During this time, Floki’s father was desperately trying to have children of his own and failing. At one point believing that he was sterile and unable to father children. Something Dracula knew as well and so hid Lisa’s pregnancy from him for fear of making his sadness worse.

However, a few months later, It was revealed that his current love was with child and Floki was born accompanied by much drunken Norse revelry.

When the two men met again a few years later, Floki was brought with his father to show to Dracula that he finally had a child. A moment where Dracula also revealed his son and Where Floki met Adrian.

Floki showed Adrian what it was like to play and horse around. They would play pretend out in the woods, get dirty, skin thier knees, the works. And where one was, you would find the other close by.

The visits between the two powerful men became more frequent due to the boys wish to see each other, not that the parents minded all that much.

Over time Floki’s affection for Adrian would change and deepen. His longing to stay by his friends side would get stronger and one fateful afternoon when Adrian got hurt, FLoki would realize how he had fallen in love with him.

Adrian would never know this however, due to Floki’s unstable powers at the time, his sub par control of his hunger and the fear of hurting him.

As they got older, and partly to the above, their visits to see each other would lessen and by the time they were full grown, had stopped entirely.

That is until Floki Heard of Lisa’s death at the hands of the church.

Even with his incredible power to teleport far distances it took him several months to reach Wallachia. He didn’t seek out Adrian immediately though, too curious to see the truth of what happened.

Each of “The Old Ones” Has a unique skill that is developed and evolved over time, according to personality, interest, skill and homeland. Due to Floki’s curiosity, his love for history and his desire to see how it all works together, he developed what he liked to call, memory recall.

His skill allowed him to see memories of the past through people, objects or locations where something that evoked strong emotional or magical reactions in the area happened. And if there was no such thing, if the event was more recent, if he had access to people that were there and stood on the location, he could see and feel the event as if he lived it.

Lisa’s death held him up in an inn for several days trying to chase the feeling of flames on his skin. Dracula’s anger and grief laid him up for even longer as he cried himself sick.

Gregit was better though, seeing the man who did the deed getting called out by a demon and then eaten gave him a bit of satisfaction.

Briela was fascinating though. He had to meet whomever managed to capture the ever moving castle.

By the Time Floki would arrive at the now defunk castle and underground hold, the siblings bodies are already outside on pikes.

This doesn't scare him away of course, and to find out why they were there he uses his memory recall. Where he sees through there eyes what they did to Adrian, albeit a little fuzzy. But is able to hear what the twins were thinking in that moment and see, just for a short time, Adrian tied to the bed afraid and hurt.

This causes him to snap his fingers and cause the corpses to burst into flames.

An action that draws Adrian’s attention causing a little bit of a fight before they recognize each other.

Over the next while Adrian allows Floki to stay and fix the castle as well as the Belmont estate and work towards getting the transportation engine online again. Eventually.

Overtime, all of Floki’s feelings come back with a vengeance and he gives as much attention and TLC to Adrian as he allows. Eventually getting Adrian to allow him close enough to see though his memory what the siblings had done to him

A scene that will either start a few revelations with both Adrian and FLoki or lead to a very steamy situation. Possibly both.

But it all ends in Adrian getting all the Love and TLC that man deserves after the hell he was put through.

I just hope they aren’t trying to set him up to become an antagonist later...

#castlevania #adriandeservesbetter #adrian tepes

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flutteringphalanges · 4 years ago

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Night of the Living Dead (And Then Some)

Summary: It’s 1897 and the world as we know it has become overrun by zombies. An unlikely pair, a former nun by the name of Agatha Van Helsing, and a bloodthirsty vampire, Count Dracula, have formed an alliance in the hopes of surviving this debacle. Can the two learn to coexist or will they end up as just another mindless cog in life’s maniacal wheel?

Ship: Dragatha

Rating: M

Chapters: 1/2

Read on FFN and AO3

A/N: An odd two part one shot that came to my mind. I wanted to do something Halloween-ish. I guess in a way this is a parody because it is Dracula and there are also zombies?! Anyway, hope you like hope it turned out! -Jen

Part One

Surprisingly, he hadn’t taken notice of the damn thing until her arrow nearly took him out. Dracula watched as the undead beast faltered briefly before falling still on the ground. Right in the center of the forehead. She was getting good. Perhaps too good. Nostrils flaring slightly, he rounded about to face her.

“That could’ve easily hit me.” He attempted to argue as Agatha strode forward to pluck her prized arrow from the corpse. “What if I had moved just a bit? That weapon of yours could’ve struck my heart.”

“And then I would have one less problem on my hands.” She replied simply, not so much as giving him the benefit of a look. “I knew what I was doing. If it hadn’t been for me, it would’ve gotten you and Lord knows what would happen if you were to get bit. There aren’t exactly many vampires about that we’ve seen cases of.”

“Must you bring God into this?” Dracula sighed, running a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to say, Agatha? Thank you?”

“That would be rather nice.” She sighed, cleaning off the grimy arrow. “But I have a feeling that I’m not going to get such a response from you. You are, as one might claim, a bit pig-head.”

“Pig headed?!” The vampire let out a humorless laugh. “Pig headed?! Why how your insults have grown since our first encounter, Agatha. If anyone is pig headed, it’s you for insisting we go to Brasov--which, I’ll inform you, was very overrun!”

“Everywhere is overrun, Dracula.” The former nun sighed, finally turning to look at the man. “Romania, Holland...it’s like a cesspit of flesh eating monsters that, well…” She paused for a moment. “Make you seem like a mere mosquito.”

The vampire’s eyes narrowed as the woman tossed her bow over her shoulder. Sometimes a small part of him felt the urge to end her right there. It would be so easy. But the bigger part refrained from that. Perhaps if he could read her mind at this very moment, she too felt the same way. Bickering was always better than dead. It was a good reminder to them both.

“Come on.” Agatha’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. “It’ll be daylight soon and the last thing I need is for you to burn into a crisp.”

“If I’m not mistaken, I could’ve sworn you said you’d have one less problem without me.” Dracula countered with a smirk.

“The idea is becoming more tempting.” The woman replied with a huff. “Now come on, there is no telling what awaits us.” She gave a nod with her head. “This way then.”

The memory was still very vivid in his mind as he was sure it was in Agatha’s. The night he slaughtered every nun in St. Mary’s Convent but her. How the woman gave up her freedom, her life without a second thought in order to save meek, little Mina Murray. He’d had plans for Agatha. Devilish desires involving her blood. And in a way, perhaps she thought that somehow she could take advantage of him. Oh how the fates change when Death knocks at your door. A new side of unrest that he hadn’t seen in his several centuries of life.

“I don’t know about you, but I am quite parched.” Dracula said, breaking the long silence. “I haven’t had a human since...well...does tasting you count?” “You’ve survived years without drinking, I’m sure you can continue on just fine.” Agatha said, rolling her eyes. “I’ve been drinking river water and consuming squirrels and you don’t see me complaining. You don’t have to worry about dysentery.”

“I suppose having you become ill and me carrying for you would put a damper on our little excursion.” He smiled when he saw the glare on Agatha’s face. “What do you suppose would happen if I were bit? If I were to become “undead” undead? Would it reverse the process? Would I be human again? Or would I be a raging animal the likes of which this world has never seen?”

“I’d prefer not to think about either of us getting bit.” The former nun expressed. “We’ve seen what happens. How they turn. It isn’t pleasant.” There was a brief pause before she added. “...If I were to be bitten, I would highly appreciate if you would kill--”

Dracula stopped in his tracks and turned to face his partner. “Your death--at least in the way you are proposing it, isn’t at the top of my list.” No, losing her in that matter was not certain. “You will remain alive, Agatha...at least until I deem it otherwise.”

“Your version of being undead is only slightly less repulsive.” Agatha exclaimed, shaking her head. “Now hurry along, we’re losing nighttime.”

“Always so eager and demanding.” The vampire tutted with a smirk. “I have yet to decide exactly how I feel about that with you.”

The former nun merely rolled her eyes once more, a small smile gracing her features. “My complexity is one of my more charming qualities.” Her gaze flashed up to the full moon. “Perhaps there will come a day where you decide. Or not.” Agatha’s attention turned to the vampire, a look of amusement crossing her face. “And maybe, if you are lucky, I’ll look forward to your answer.”

“Perhaps.” The Count agreed. “Until then, it seems we are left to put up with each other.”

A low growl came from within the bushes nearby. Agatha and Dracula turned to see a creature stumbling out from the brush. His skin, just like his clothing, dangled in rags as he hobbled over to the two. Without so much as a second thought, the vampire produced his treasure saber and brought it swiftly through the zombie’s head. Even after centuries of going untouched. Years of battle it’d been in. The Count’s weapon of choice was rather practical--even if it wasn’t as secretly impressive as Agatha’s bow.

“A clean hit.” The former nun noted. “You’re improving.”

Dracula let out a laugh. “As if you know anything about true combat.”

“I was raised by Abraham Van Helsing.” She countered, folding her arms. “And I know you well enough to know that my grandfather was quite skilled.”

“He was no warlord.” Dracula commented, cocking one of his brows. “Now, while I’d love to have a friendly duel with you, I’d rather not run into any more of our acquaintance’s friends. As you were saying, we are losing time. Best keep moving.”

And Agatha was not one to argue with that.

XXX

Cold. Dark. Musky. The dilapidated hunting shed they’d come across at least didn’t stream a single beam of light in. Agatha didn’t know why she agreed to this. Her clothes being used as a means to cover the floor. Protect her from splinters. As Dracula’s pale, naked body moved against her’s, the only warmth she felt was from his cape underneath her bottom. Fucking the vampire was hot in the word sense, but icy from his touch.

“Just a nibble…” He purred into her ear, teeth lightly grazing her earlobe. “It won’t hurt.”

“I said...no to biting…” Agatha panted, her back arching as the pad to one of his thumbs ran across her hard nipple. “Rules.” “Rules are for sheep and conformists.” Dracula growled, his hand sliding down to just barely rest on her groin. He smiled as she stiffened knowing she was throbbing deep inside. Aching for him. “Last time I checked you were far from that, Agatha.”

“If you can’t control yourself, then I am more than happy to stop.” She offered, earning her a dark glare. She knew he was already hard. Cock pressed against her inner thigh. This wasn’t the first time they’d had this debate during sex and it wouldn’t be the last. “I’m not your bottle of wine, Count Dracula. No biting or no sex.”

“You are a temptress.” He grumbled, his mouth set in a look of displeasure. “A tease.”

“I am merely the apple on the tree in The Garden of Eden and you are both Eve and the snake. You are your worst enemy.” She chuckled at her own analogy knowing well enough that her comparison to religion was not looked kindly upon by the vampire. “Isn’t my touch enough?”

She let her fingers travel down to where his cock rested against her. Dracula had been the first and only man she’d ever been with. Every sexual experience had been with him. And despite what she at first thought it’d be like, she loved it. Craved it. Especially when she whittled him down to his last nerve. Agatha gingerly touched his head, feeling the droplets weep from their prison. Over four centuries old and with just a few decades herself, she could still make him squirm.

“With you, nothing is ever enough.” He said through a breathy whisper. “Never. Never. Ever.” And without a warning, he pushed a finger deep inside Agatha causing her to yelp with surprise. So wet. Two could play at that game. “There is a vein that runs down the length of your inner thigh that is particularly delightful.” Dracula explained, kissing the former nun hard. “It would be nice for the both of us.”

“You’re a pig.” Agatha gasped as the vampire touched her sensitive spot. There were stars and her vision blurred. Dracula seemed to realize this too and probed the area thoughtfully. She struggled to speak. “Stop it!” Don’t stop. Keep going. Faster. “I...I could...scream…”

“Worried about the undead in a time like this?” Dracula snorted. “My dearest Agatha, I believe you could shout as loudly as you desired and no one would hear. And I quite like that idea.” He could feel her hand grip tighter around his cock as if in response. It took everything in him to hold it together. “If you won’t give me your blood, at least let me hear you cry out my name. You owe me that much.”

Agatha gazed up at him with fury, but lustful blue eyes. He was winning this one. She hated when that happened. Though they were still shrouded in darkness, the former nun could still make out the glint of his smile as her hand released him and he positioned himself at her entrance. She bit down hard on her lower lip. Not because she anticipated the pain. No. She anticipated the pleasure and what was to come.

Dracula was rather unpredictable when it came to his part in sex. He could be soft, almost caring and considerate. Loving. Or he could fuck so hard that Agatha’s head was left spinning and she had bruises the next day. And if she were to be quite frank, she didn’t have a favorite. The vampire was always so good. So damn fantastic that with every thrust Agatha felt herself shaking deep from within her very core. Part of her wondered if there was a possibility she could become pregnant. It hadn’t happened yet, and they’d had quite a lot of sex. Still, it was always on the forefront of her mind when his seed spilled inside her.

“Say my name.”

The commanding voice pulled her from her thoughts and Agatha was dragged from the whimsical land of euphoria and to the wooden, shed floor. Dracula leaned over her, his lips curved into a smile. The former nun reached out and wound an arm around his neck to steady herself. She knew that he had her. He always did. But it helped.

“Say mine first.”

The words escaped out as a moan which did not help Agatha’s case. She was growing close to her climax, and Dracula could tell. His thrusts began to quicken, deepen as she buried her face into the crook of his neck. Then without thinking, she bit down on the vampire’s skin. That immediately stopped the man in his tracks.

“Did you just...bite me?” He asked breathlessly, grinning widely. “Oh, Agatha…”

There were no marks. Of course there wouldn’t be. But she was so caught up in the moment. Suddenly, it dawned on her as they lay there still in the throes of passion. A silly little thought that made her smile too.

“You.” She gasped out. “You said my name.”

“What?” Dracula interjected. “But I...that doesn’t count…”

“Still said it…” Agatha smirked, chest rising and following. “I win.”

“Oh, we will see about that.” The vampire chuckled darkly. “I’m just getting started.”

XXX

Though he’d said her name, Agatha had finished first. Twice even before Dracula met his limit. They fell back on their makeshift bed of clothing that they’d be putting on later. Her head resting on his chest, the woman watched the door quietly. Though she felt sleepy as the adrenaline rush began to fade, a part of her wanted to stay awake. But she knew how important it was to remain diligent. Especially at night.

“Romania has fallen to whatever caused this plague.” Dracula said softly. “And we don’t know where else it has stretched. Perhaps there's a chance it’s only here.”

“And Holland.” Agatha reminded solemnly. “We’ve been roaming around aimlessly. Seen less and less humans.” She was silent for a moment before she craned her head up to meet his stare. “I do realize how it affects you.”

His fingers ran down the base of her skull and followed the path of her spine. She closed her eyes as he stroked her back. It was soothing, though the conversation at hand was not. If humans were going to become like an endangered species, then what of Dracula? After everything she was taught. Everything she’d seen. Agatha knew deep down her feelings for the vampire weren’t right. But even deeper down she didn’t care. Not in the least bit.

“I have a proposition.” Dracula said after a moment’s thought. “And I have thought about this quite a bit. Much longer than this disease has been going on and much, much longer than my meeting you.”

Agatha sat up from where she lay. “What might that be?”

“England.” Dracula said simply, sitting up as well. “Where we’d go in England, it’d be more advanced than the villages we’ve gone to. Perhaps the virus isn’t there or even better, they have a cure. It is better than nothing.”

“England.” Agatha repeated as if she heard him right. “But we don’t even have a ship. That’s at least a few weeks' sail from the coast to the bay. How do you expect us to get there?” The expression on his face said it all. “...Is there no other way?” Not telling him no. Not forbidding him. It was as if in desperation she was accepting of the terms. “Is it the only way to be done?”

“Blood is lives, Agatha.” Dracula said, expression still. “Information. If we want to get across then I’m going to need the blood of someone who understands sailing among other things. Someone healthy--or at least not riddled with disease.” He touched her hand, surprised she didn’t pull away. “I’ll take only what I need.” The Count promised.

“And what if there are no survivors at the port?” The former nun whispered. “What if they’ve all turned?”

“Then we keep going.” The vampire sighed, leaning back. “You should get some rest. It’ll be a long journey to the port if memory serves correct. I’ll take watch.”

“You took the first watch last time.” Agatha countered, sitting up straighter. “And if you know where we are going, then you should be the one with the clear mind.” Dracula opened his mouth to interject, but she continued. “I’ll be fine. Trust me. I’ll wake you up in a few hours. Besides, I am considerably more accurate with killing the creatures than you are with that ridiculous saber. You needn’t be so close with a bow.”

“Ah, you say that now but wait until those flimsy things split in two and your string breaks. Then you’ll be wishing you were brandishing reliable steel.” Dracula chortled. “Honestly, of all the weapons to choose from…”

“Go to sleep you warmonger.” Agatha snorted, resting a hand on his head as he lowered himself down. “There will be other times to debate weapons. Get some rest.”

“Wake me if anything happens.” The vampire said with sudden alertness. “I am not playing, Agatha. At any immediate threat of danger, you must wake me up. Even if the sun has yet to set.”

“You have my word.” The woman promised as the Count’s body relaxed. “Sleep.”

XXX

Agatha didn’t wake Dracula up after a few hours. Instead, when she was sure the sun was setting just enough as to not be so bright, she covered the vampire’s body as not to expose it and slipped outside. She inhaled deeply, enjoying what little light was left. She missed the day--though she kept that knowledge from Dracula. It was harder at night. Finding food. Water. But the few times she could escape. Sneak out without him worrying--those were good times.

Thunk!

The partridge didn’t even see the arrow before it pierced straight through its body. It was an instant kill, one Agatha wished for every living thing she killed--maybe, if she thought hard about it, she’d feel the same about the undead. Picking up the decent sized fowl, she couldn’t help but admire it. After a good plucking and cooking, this would last her a few days. Especially if she could come across some salt and preserve it. Now that would be true luck.

As Agatha walked over to what had perhaps once been a sort of fire pit, she took a seat down in the ground. Yank off handfuls of feathers, her mind kept wandering back to Dracula. His own need for food. Something he hadn’t been as fortunate to get. And maybe he deserved it. After all of the evil he caused, maybe this was fate’s punishment. But Agatha’s judgement, though questionable, began to consider something that maybe was pushing the bounds of her sanity even more.

Abandoning the bird for the time being, she made her way back into their temporary housing. Dracula was still fast asleep--he was odd like that, how deeply or not his slumbering was. Retrieving one of the jars she used for water, she returned outside. There truly was no means to prepare her hand for what she planned. Nothing to clean it with--she was out of water. But taking her arrow, the blood from the bird now smeared down her pant’s leg, she sliced her palm wide open and held it over the jar.

It burned. Ached. Maybe she’d gone too far. Too deep. And as her blood flowed, she half expected Dracula to be roused from his sleep and attack her simply because he was in such dire need of the crimson fluid. But instead, everything was still silent. She bit her lip, her eyes pricked with tears as the bleeding thankfully began to stop on its own. A good sign that maybe she had injured herself too horribly. Careful not to spill a drop, she tore off a piece of her sleeve and bound her cut hand.

If there was to be a good deed done, this would certainly qualify for Agatha. That was, at least for today.

XXX

“Well out of all outcomes, I certainly didn’t expect this!”

Agatha’s nostrils flared as Dracula, though his eyes burned that frightening shade of black with hunger, did not take the jar immediately from her. Instead, he stared at her hand looking equally as upset. When he reached out to take it, she yanked it back almost tempted to spill the blood all over the floor.

“Well out of all the outcomes, Agatha, I can’t say I expected you to slice your hand open for me!” He tried to grab for it again, this time managing to catch her wrist. “Let me see it. Did you even try to clean it?”

“Why can’t you just drink the blood?” Agatha sighed as he studied the wound. “I was trying to be nice. You talk about being oh so thirsty all of the time and craving me during sex. Well, this is what you want, yes? A true taste of me?”

“Not when it involves you injuring yourself!” The Count let out a dramatic huff. “You’re lucky this isn’t too terribly deep. As I recall, you need both hands for your weapon. We’ll have to watch it and make sure it doesn’t get infected.” The vampire shook his head. “And you went behind my back and took my sleep shift.”

“I was enjoying the daylight!” Agatha hissed, now getting annoyed. “And I caught myself something to eat! I didn’t have to rely on someone else! Not to mention be appreciative of it!” She slid the jar over, watching Dracula’s Adam's apple bob as he swallowed the liquid whishing within.

Then, without another word, Dracula lifted up the cup and gulped down the contents in less than a second. When he set it down, his eyes fixed on Agatha and a chill ran down her spine. Cold. Hungry. Lack of recognition. She could hear the vampire’s breathing becoming heavier as he moved closer. Was this it then? Had she given him a wine tasting that led to the draining of the whole bottle.

“D...Dracula?”

Her voice was soft, shaking as she scooted backwards. She looked around the room for any sort of weapon in arm’s reach. Conveniently, his saber was on the opposite wall to her and the bow and arrows were out of sight. Agatha swallowed and tried to remain calm. If this was truly the end, she’d rather it’d be by his doing than that of one of those creatures. Instinctively her eyes closed as he loomed over her, the former nun waiting for his attack when a pair of arms pulled her in.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was gruff, breathing more labored than intense. “I’m okay…”

Agatha looked up only to come face to face with Dracula. She could see her own blood smeared across his lips, smelled it's strange rusty scent. How that was appetizing to the vampire, she did not know.

“I thought…” She began, quite unsure what to say. “After you drank my blood, I thought that you would…”

“Given our current circumstances, my ability to remain in control might be a little rustier than I thought.” He gave her a small smirk. “I suppose it was a good thing that I didn’t bite you during sex. Could’ve led to a less than pleasurable end.” He was silent for a moment. “Thank you. For your blood. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.” Agatha said simply. “I wanted to.”

“And I must say, you are quite gifted with your weapon abilities.” The vampire said with a small smile. “Abraham, though we had our...differences...trained you well. Though, I have to admit you were pretty talented with that Pattern 1853 Enfield of his. Where did it come across a rifle-musket like that? Couldn’t have been easy, especially due to the legality of it.”

“I think we should make a new rule now that you’ve consumed by blood.” Agatha said, folding her arms over her chest. “You don’t bring up any details you’ve received from my blood--unless, of course, I offer them up in conversation.”

“Pity.” Dracula said, letting out a fake, long sigh. “I have so many.”

“You should have thought about that beforehand.” The former nun exclaimed. “Questions that go unanswered can be such a bother.”

“Like an ex nun wielding a gun better than the average soldier.” The vampire replied, with a small, lopsided grin.

“Careful.” Agatha warned. “I might’ve not had practice in a few years, but I am rather sure that if I were to pick up a said rifle of my choice, my aim would be fairly decent.” She exhaled, running a hand through her hair. “You should finish dressing. The sun has set enough for us to leave.”

Though she knew that their decision was the right one, part of Agatha didn’t want to leave the shack. Despite how messy and unkempt it was, it had proven to be safe. But staying anywhere too long, they had learned, didn’t always end up so. The former nun exhaled and glanced towards the rotting door and tried to push past what horrors awaited them.

XXX

“La naiba!” Dracula cursed in his native tongue as he peered over the hill. “Trebuie să glumești…”

“Maybe speak in English?” Agatha said from his side. “Ik spreek een klein beetje Nederland.” She hoped that her attempt at light humor would cause him to smile, but the serious expression did not leave his face. “What is it?”

“A horde.” He hissed under his breath. “By the main entrance into the shipyard.”

“Can you tell how many?” She replied, straining her eyes. Agatha could see movement from down below, but not much else. “...Do you think there is anyone even alive?”

“At least ten.” Dracula answered, trying to hide the defeat in his tone. “And I don’t know. Not with a group like that lurking about. And who knows how many are separated from the main herd? We could try to kill them and then look around.” He turned to meet Agatha’s stare. “I am far as one can be from a man of prayer and I know you are unique in your beliefs, but we could really use one of your mystique rituals...without a cross would be appreciated.” His attempt at a failed joke.

“We’ve come all this way.” Agatha said, moving to grab her bow. “We might as well try.” A small grin flickered across her features. “I should’ve taken the gun from my grandfather. My brother never learned to shoot anyway.”

Together, as quietly as they could, Dracula and Agatha slid down the hill. As they moved towards the horde, other zombies began to amble out from abandoned buildings. Their moves were quick, swift in killing the creatures before they could alert the others. When they drew nearer, the vampire grabbed the former nun by the forearm and pulled her in close.

“Fall back a little and find higher ground. That way you can aim better. I’ll be fine down here.” She didn’t seem so keen on the idea as he placed a kiss on her lips. “Go. Now.”

Agatha’s footfalls were soft against the dirt ground. When she stopped in her tracks, she glanced around at the sight before her. How could anyone be left alive after this? It was then she saw a pile of rubble against a collapsed building. Perfect. But just as Agatha approached her access point, she was caught off guard by a zombie. The creature made a grab for her and knocked her flat on her back. The former nun struggled, gritting her teeth as she shoved it off. With a powerful smack, she struck it with an arrow through the head. The thing fell limp and the woman scrambled to her feet.

Heart still pounding, Agatha shook her head and looked towards the direction of the horde. Dracula hadn’t seen what had just occurred and for that she was thankful. Refocusing on the house, she made her way to the debris and scrambled up. It was then she realized that while the vampire had a point about her having a higher shooting range, making him out in the midst of the ravage was too risky. He wouldn’t be happy about it, but he damn well needed her if he didn’t want to end up...something other than his usual “undead”.

“Agatha!” Dracula snapped in surprise as a zombie’s head collided with his shoe. “What the hell are you doing?!” “Saving you!” The woman declared, aiming her bow towards one of the creatures. “Clearly you need it.”

“I told you to go up somewhere high!” He insisted, lobbing off another head. “For once can you listen to me?!”

“You forget I don’t have night vision!” Agatha hissed, hitting a zombie straight between the eyes. “I don’t know why you worry so much about me. I--”

She didn’t realize the thing was behind her until it sunk its rotten teeth deep into her forearm. Agatha cried out in a mixture of shock and horror as blood spurted from the wound. Almost instantly the creature’s head lay at her feet, the horde now completely destroyed. A look of horror was etched across Dracula’s face. One she had never seen before. The former nun grabbed her injury tightly, her heart banging so hard that her chest ache.

Christ, she’d really screwed up.

I hope you enjoyed part one (of two)! I know it is a different kind of story! Dracula was saying in Romanian: “Dammit” and “You must be kidding” while Agatha said in Dutch: “I speak a little bit of the Netherlands (or Dutch).” Anyway, feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! Motivation helps so much! Until the next part! Stay safe and healthy! -Jen

#Dracula #Dragatha #Dracula 2020 #Agatha Van Helsing #Dracula x Agatha #BBC Dracula #Dracula on Netflix #Night of the Living Dead (And Then Some)

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